


If This Castle Could Speak

by GoldenEmpire



Category: Original Work
Genre: (kind of), A lot of kissing, Abuse, Adventure, Alcohol, Anal Sex, Angst, Arguments, Arranged Marriage, Autism, Banquets, Bard - Freeform, Battle, Beaches, Betrayal, Blackmail, Blow Jobs, Bonding, Brothels, Bully, Bullying, Castles, Character Development, Cheating, Childhood Friends, Comfort, Crying, Cuddling, Dancing, Dates, Death, Death of family, Denial, Desert, Disability, Dreams, Drinking, Druids, Dysfunctional Relationships, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Engagement, Engagement Party, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Familiars, Fantasy, Fights, Fingering, First Kiss, First Meeting, Flirting, Forbidden Love, Forced Kissing, Forced Marriage, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gambling, Gay, Hammocks, Harems, Historical Incest, Homelessness, Honeymoon, Hypersexuality, Hypothermia, Idiots in Love, Imprisonment, Inns, Insecurity, Invasion, Jealousy, Killing, Kingdoms, Kissing, Knights - Freeform, Loneliness, Long, Loss of Virginity, Love Confessions, Love Letters, Love affairs, Love at First Sight, M/M, Magic, Making Love, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Masturbation, Medieval, Mentions of Rape, Mentions of incest, Middle Ages, Mommy Issues, Multiple Pairings, Multiple wives, Mutual Pining, NSFW, Nightmares, Nymphomania, Nymphomaniac, Old Age, One Night Stands, Orphans, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Pets, Pining, Politics, Polyamory, Polygamy, Porn, Possessiveness, Prison, Prostitution, Protectiveness, Raids, Realisation, Religion, Rimming, Robbery, Rough Sex, Running away from home, Sacrifice, Sad, Saving, Secret Kisses, Sharing a Bath, Sharing a Bed, Siblings, Sickness, Side Stories, Sleep Paralysis, Sleepovers, Slow Burn, Smut, Sneaking Out, Stealing, Storms, Storytelling, Strong Female Characters, Swearing, Thief, Threats, Threesome, Topping from the Bottom, Tragedy, Trauma, Treating injuries, Unrequited Love, Violence, Visions, War, Wedding Night, Weddings, Winter, Worldbuilding, age gap, baths, battles, cottages, cuddling for warmth, culture clash, dub con, escaped prisoner, f/f - Freeform, fairytales - Freeform, fake boyfriends, fake husbands, forced engagement, graphic content, handjobs, injuries, kidnap, kind of, kings - Freeform, no actual incest, prisoner, satyriasis, self-consciousness, semi public blow jobs, ships, side pairings, travelling, unwilling companions, warriors - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2019-10-25 23:34:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 201,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17734787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenEmpire/pseuds/GoldenEmpire
Summary: Lysander is trying to keep the kingdom of Wildeshell from crumbling under his hands, but plagued by his own hidden desires, raids from Dreiyards and war with the Shairins, he barely has any strength left to resist his forceful suitor who has just invaded his kingdom and demanded his hand in marriage.Prince Arian's mind isn't all 'there.' He likes to read books and pick flowers off petals, he is sensitive and can't sleep alone, and doesn't see why he can't marry his childhood best friend.Meanwhile, half the world away, Tomoya Itoe is on the run with the death penalty hanging over his head. He never expected to become the escort of a certain annoying blond-haired boy, who is a long way from home and desperate to get back.Callian is an outsider in his village, and the only way he knows he will be safe from loneliness is if he becomes the Head Druid; however it's hard when he is constantly bombarded by love confessions from the village's greatest warrior and his arch-nemesis.***BASICALLY A FANTASY, HISTORICAL, GAY STORYThis is gonna be kinda long.It's also gonna be very porny (but y'all have to wait for that...)STICK AROUND IF YOU LIKE SOME SMUT AND WORLDBUILDING;)





	1. Character List

_I've had a couple of you guys let me know you're a bit confused by whose who in the story so here's a brief rundown of the main characters in each storyline :)_

_(DISCLAIMER: none of the images save for the main bois are mine, they're off the internet and are just an indication of what each character looks like)_

_**Storyline 1 -** _

**Prince Omarian 'Ari' Abazza:** The younger brother of the Leahil (King) of Hadia who is being forced into an arranged marriage.

 

 **Augustus 'Gus' Ciprianus:** A ward of the Leahil of Hadia, sent from the Empire of Odelia as a sign of good will. He is Ari's childhood best friend and protector. 

**Seraf Abazza:** The Leahil (King) of Hadia. He has three wives and is forced to arrange the marriage of his brother to gain aid in war.

**Eryel, Kater and Burha:** The three wives of Seraf.

**Gahr Rahun:** Arian's betrothed who is reluctant to marry the Prince

_**Storyline 2 -** _

**Roan Gallobhair:** The son of the Chieftain, he is the greatest warrior in the village of Cervantes and destined to become the Chief after his father dies.

**Callian Cinnéidie:** An orphan found in the forest by the Head Druid of the Cervantes village and brought back. He is considered somewhat of an outsider and is training to become the next Head Druid in order to keep his place in the village.

**Feona and Wynna Gallobhair:** Sisters of Roan, and the daughters of the chief. 

**Maganna Uthreth:** the Head Druid of Cervantes.

**Orena McLoen:** A Druid in training and Cal's competitor. 

_**Storyline 3 -** _

**King Sef Ammon:** The king of the most powerful nation in the world, the Voubren. He has laid siege on the Kingdom of Beauralt in order to force its Lord Protector to marry him. 

**Lysander Harkness:** The young Lord Protector of Wildeshell. He struggles between trying to keep his country from falling apart, and his attraction to Sef, which is considered sinful in his Kingdom. 

**Beheret Ammon:** Sef's power-hungry twin sister who is determined to stop his marriage with Lys and marry her brother herself in order to become the Queen of Voubrenia.

****

**Lady Estania Harkness:** Lysander's mother.

****

**Baralthol Ridger:** The hot-headed general of the Wildeshell army, and Lys' closest friend.

**Heroti Aht:** Sef's Captain of the Guard. 

_**Storyline 4 -** _

**Tomoya Itoe:** Once a guardian of the Tekoshi Wall, he is now on the run after being arrested. He doesn't know where he's heading.

**Ivo, son of Yankovi:** A young Dukkosh boy that some months prior had been kidnapped from his village by Odelians, and sold into slavery in the Shairin Empire. Having escaped, he teams up with Tomoya to try and get home.

**Miko Ondera:** A Guardian of the Tekoshi Wall and Tomoya's best friend. He is weaker and slower than the other Guardians and so remains on the Wall instead of being offered a job.

****

**Keito Shingatasha:** The son of a prominent Lord and a Guardian on the Tekoshi Wall, as well as Miko's nemesis.

****

**Arkana Hassaa:** The daughter of the owner of the Al-Sahana Inn.

****

**Lady Hiroa Kage:** The daughter of the Lord of the house in which Tomoya served in as a guard; she is his first love.

****

**Captain Jaro:** Captain of the Ship  _Sava._

****

**Stefla:** Jaro's young and wild daughter.

****

_**Also to help with the settings here is a list of what things are :)** _

**The Din-Moher Harem:** The imperial harem of the Leahil of Hadia (in this case Seraf). It has many floors and is very grand, and it's where the Leahil's mother, siblings, wives as well as his court lives.

 **Castle Darmont:** The Castle of the Lord Protector of Wildeshell, located in Crasbury. It is made of stone and situated in a field, and is always cold.

 **The Tekoshi Wall:** The protective wall surrounding the Mairi Empire, prohibiting people from exiting or entering. It borders with the Empty Land which separates Tekoshi from its enemies in the Shairin Empire. The Guardians of the Wall are young boys trained in combat as well as educated to not only defend the Wall itself, but to be sent into Tekoshi and protect the houses of Nobles.

 **Al-Sahana Inn:** An inn in Cheri, Hadia, run by the Hassaa's. 

 _ **Sava:**_ The Dukkosh ship belonging to Captain Jaro that travels between the Shairin Empire and the Dukkosha settlements.  _  
_

**Cervantes:** A village in Beavnird, North Islands, where Roan and Cal live. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this helped and thankyou so much for the lovely comments !


	2. The Echoes of Our Childhood (Prologue)

**_Summer, Year 199CE._ **

**_Castle Darmont, Crasbury, Wildeshell._ **

**_Kingdom of Beauralt._ **

**__ **

_The young lord was woken by light falling in through the gap in the thick, heavy curtains hanging in his window. His chamber was dark, and cold radiated from the grey stone walls. Despite it being summer, Castle Darmont was chilly as always. Lysander Harkness hated the cold. He blinked sleepily at the sun peeking through shyly, dust particles fluttering in the shaft of light that somehow managed to land directly on his pale face, causing him to squint his grey eyes. With a soft sight the still-child turned over, back to the sunshine. The castle was silent, perhaps it was still early, perhaps he could still fit in a few more minutes of sleep before he was roughly woken. His bed was warm. The boy buried himself further underneath the heavy blankets, curling his small body as to retain some of his body heat. He could feel sleep tethering at the edge of his consciousness, invitingly pulling him back down into his dreams._

_Alas, as always, the harsh reality had to force Lysander from unconsciousness. This morning the reason for his resentment was Mrs Caltehway bursting into his room as if God himself was chasing her. The old maid, and Lys’ nurse, was by the boy’s bed in such a short time that should have not been allowed by her obesity and old bones._

_“Up, boy!” she hissed fiercely, ripping the blankets from the child’s body._

_“No!” Lysander whined, blindly reaching for the covers before hugging himself as the freezing air of the room penetrated through his thin white night-shirt and made goosebumps erupt over his skin. He glared at Mrs Caltehway and was about to complain about why couldn’t she wake him up with a song, or by stroking his hair, but why she had to be so violent. But today was not the day for complaining – Mrs Caltehway, usually a brisk and harsh woman, looked tense and upset. She seized Lysander by the arm and drew him roughly from the bed; the boy was thin and barely eleven winters old and the woman had no trouble moving him about as if he were a rag doll. Lys felt something in the air, something was wrong – Mrs Caltehway was frantic, distressed. The boy curled his toes against the furred carpet and bit his bottom lip. Was he in some kind of trouble? Was it because he went swimming with the servant boys in the pond yesterday?_

_Mrs Caltehway threw a cloak around his shoulders, “Hurry, boy, shoes.”_

_The lord put his feet into his house slippers and clutched the cloak around his shoulders – today, he decided, he would do as he was told. Mrs Caltehway grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him towards the door._

_“Nurse,” Lysander protested, “I’m not dressed-“_

_It was bizarre – Mrs Caltehway was always on Lys about dressing properly, being polite and acting as expected from the only son of the Lord Protector of Wildeshell. And yet now she was ushering him out still in his night-clothes, with his face unwashed and hair un-brushed._

_“Hush now, child,” Mrs Caltehway rushed him out into the corridor, which was even colder than Lys’ room. The boy felt anxiety crawl up his throat, bitter and acidic. Something was very, very wrong. Castle Darmont was silent, and Castle Darmont was_ never _silent. There were forever servants bustling about, his mother barking orders. And yet now..._

_Lysander clutched the cloak and allowed his nurse to weave him through the passages and hallways of the castles. They passed some servants, who all bowed their heads and curtsied, quietly muttering their good-mornings to Lysander. But nobody looked the child in the eye. Even the light streaming in through the gothic windows offered little comfort and failed to chase away the chill that seemed to be permanently instilled in Lys’ bones. They passed the guest chambers, the second dining room, climbed down the stairs and past Lysander’s father’s solar, past the chapel, until they reached the tall double doors of the Concilliar room. Lys’ tensed. The doors, a rusty crimson, seemed to glare at him. He had never been allowed in this room – this was the room where his father discussed the matters of the realm, where the privy council met to read letters and orders from King Ormond. Why was he being taken here?_

_Lord Bronyan, his father’s master of the household, was waiting outside. The man was quite old, his light brown hair streaked with grey, as way his long beard. His eyes looked tired and sad behind his half-moon glasses and although he was fully dressed, his garments were crumpled._

_“Lysander,” he smiled at the boy, but it was a weak, and watery smile. Lys suddenly felt the urge to cling to his nurse’s skirts like he did when he was a child, “I will take him now, Mrs Caltehway, thank you,” Bronyan said and held his hand out to Lysander._

_“Go on now, child,” the nurse squeezed Lys’ shoulders, almost as if in comfort, and nudged him towards the Master. Lysander ignored his outstretched hand and straightened his back; he was a man, not a child, and he was not afraid._

_Bronyan inclined his head, “As you wish,” he murmured under his breath and then pushed the door to the Concilliar room open._

_It was an oval room, with a large circular table in the middle. The ceiling was higher than most rooms in the castle, with a patchwork of arched beams painted red hanging over the table. Two of the walls were covered in books, heavy-bound leather volumes all in different colours. There was a fireplace, though unlit, and big windows. It was a brighter room than Lysander expected, with paintings on the walls and a huge map of the world on the table, with castles and armies and mountains jutting upwards out of it._

_Around the tables gathered the members of the Privy Council, his father’s men. Estania Harkness, Lysander’s mother, was there too, her hair covered by a black veil, wrinkles etched into her cold, stern face._

_“Lord,” the masters welcomed Lysander unanimously, bowing to him as he walked in. In his slippers and night shirt Lys did not feel like a Lord. His eyes danced over the faces of the old men surrounding him._

_“Where’s father?” the words were out of his mouth before Lysander could stop them. They echoed loud and clear through the room, too loud. The master’s exchanged looks, Estania’s mouth turned into a thin line. Everybody looked solemn and depressed and the sunshine from outside, accompanied by the cheerful chirping of birds, seemed lost to them. Lysander shivered. A tense silence hung in the air and the people in the room didn’t seem real, stiff as stone._

_Finally Lord Rassel, the keeper of the coffers and a man Lys always liked and respected, moved. He came to stand in front of Lys, his brown beard and hair as bushy as always. He was a big man, and he knelt in front of Lys so that they could be face to face. His expression was warm and kind._

_“My dear lad,” he put his hands, like two big pots, on Lysander’s shoulders, “I am sorry to tell you this, but your father had passed last night.”_

_Lysander blinked at him, not registering what Rassel had said, “What does ‘passed’ mean?” he asked, his voice ringing loud again. It was  as stupid question, he knew what it meant, but there was nothing else he could think of saying..._

_“Foolish boy!” Estania spat, then turned away from the table, dabbing at her face with a handkerchief. Lysander looked down, sad that he had made his mother upset. But then again, she was always upset with him._

_“Your father has died, Lysander,” Rassel explained, voice remaining gentle. Still, Lysander flinched. The word ‘died’ hung in the air, heavy, and Lys could taste it on his tongue. It tasted bitter._ Died... _, “he had consumption, dear lad.”_

 _“Oh,” Lysander said quietly. He was too afraid to ask what consumption was, but he assumed it was some sort of illness. The cold in the room seemed to intensify._ Why am I not sad? _The boy wondered distractedly. He tried to picture his father’s face in his mind. He hadn’t seen him in weeks, but then again Folk Harkness had never been a particularly affectionate father and didn’t care to spend time with his only child. He was just a distant, scary figure. And now he was gone. Lys didn’t really feel much, except anxiety at the way the masters were looking at him, and cold from not being dressed proper._

_Rassel stood up and Bronyan continued, “You are here today, Lysander, because you are your father’s heir. You are now the Lord Protector of Wildeshell.”_

_Lysander frowned. There were four Lord Protectors in Beauralt, one for each kingdom. Wildeshell was the northern-most kingdom, and the smallest, and yet Lys understood that it was an important asset in the realm of King Ormond. The King relied on his Lord Protectors to take care of their kingdoms for him, ensure the people were happy and that there are no wars. It was an honour, and a burden at the same time. Lys tried to comprehend what that meant._

_He was going to have to protect a whole kingdom, all by himself. Suddenly he felt terribly small and alone. He turned to look at his mother, but her stiff back was still to him._

_“Is it all of Wildeshell?” he asked in a small, timid voice._

_“Oh you stupid child!” Estania whirled around, face twisted in fury, making Lys wish she had remained facing away, “Why must you ask such foolish questions?!”_

_“My lady,” one of the master’s said, gentle and stern, “Lysander is now the Lord Protector, have some respect.”_

_Estania seethed and turned away again as if the simple sight of her son repulsed her. Lysander wanted to cry. He wanted to return to this morning and stay in his bed forever._

_“He needs to grow up,” Estania whispered bitterly. Lysander swallowed and tried to stand up straighter, but he was only a little boy._

_“I apologise, mother,” he said, voice tight, fighting tears, “I’ll do better. I’ll be a good Lord Protector, I promise.”_

**_Summer, Year 200CE (A Year Later)_ **

**_Din-Moher Harem, Antasa, Hadia_ ** **.**

**_Shairin Empire._ **

**__ **

_Augustus Ciprianus looked out at the courtyard of the Harem. The seven year old boy contemplated how different it was from the courtyard in his father’s estate back in Itreoris. Augustus’ kingdom was warm and sunny and pleasant, but since arriving in the Shairin Empire some days prior he felt that all he saw was sun. Even now, where he was hidden in the shade of a lemon tree, reading the book assigned to him by his new tutor, he could feel the unbearable heat around him. It stilled any wind and made the air wet, thick and hard to breathe. Augustus couldn’t possibly see how he would get used to it – Antasa was a city in the desert, everything was yellow and crumbly and_ hot. _The young boy yearned for the shimmering azure sea that he could see out of his bedroom window back home._

 _But alas, Augustus knew his duty and knew why he was here, in the Shairin Empire, in the Palace of the King. No, not Palace. This place was a Harem, a word thick and bizarre on Augustus’ tongue. And the man who ruled it wasn’t a King either, rather he was a Leahil, another peculiar word unfamiliar to the boy. Everywhere he knew had Emperors and Kings, and yet the Shairin Empire was different. He was here as a sign of good faith from his father, as a ward_. _He was to be educated here, to grow up among the children of the Leahil and become a member of the court. He would grow up to become a general. The prospect excited Augustus – he always wanted to be a brave soldier, defending his empire. And yet now he found himself in a different one, one he knew very little about. The journey by ship had been pleasant enough, but now Augustus was growing tired of the sand and the sun and yearned for his home and the cool breeze of the sea._

_The boy closed his book and sighed. It was too hot to concentrate. He thought it was weird that nobody was guarding him, or ensuring he did his tasks. He had arrived in the morning and met his tutor, who only after an hour excused him so Augustus found himself left to his own devices, wandering around the Harem, bored and frustrated. Nobody seemed to notice or care about him; the Harem was full of people, and there were plenty loud, problematic children running around. Even though Augustus stood out with his pale skin, light brown hair and startling grey eyes, he didn’t gauge anybody’s interest for longer than a few seconds. Not that he minded, he wasn’t a very talkative child to begin with and the strangers in this place, dressed skimpily and laughing loudly and boisterously, made him anxious._

_A burst of laughter made Augustus turn his head to look at the other side of the courtyard. It was a large square, framed by ripe lemon trees. Out of one of the many arched, door less entrances leading off to different parts of the Harem and promising a shadowy, cold respite from the heat of the day, spilled a hoard of wild-looking children. Their loose, billowing trousers and golden-threaded shirts implied that they were part of the royal family, though they were not acting like it. There were three boys and two girls which again confused Augustus as back in Itreoris girls were not only forbidden from wearing trousers, but they also couldn’t run around with boys, taking up painting and weaving instead as the boys sparred outside. And yet the girls here, with their long, dark hair braided, were allowed as much freedom as their male companions. Augustus watched now as they all chased each other, weaving between the lemon trees and laughing cheerfully. The runt of the group appeared to be one of the boys; he was smaller than the others and slower, stumbling along on his chubby legs. Augustus gauged that he might have been maybe a summer younger than himself. He looked half a girl, with black hair that fell in waves to his shoulders and his big, teary, dark eyes._

_“Wait!” he called to his friends as they circled the courtyard. But the other four seemed to use that as encouragement to play a different game – they all banded together, ducking behind a lemon tree, giggling and shoving each other playfully. They were a few years older than the young one, and he stopped in the centre of the courtyard and looked around helplessly. Augustus watched as the boy clutched his hands in front of him, wringing out his chubby fingers as his eyes desperately searched the courtyard. Servants milled about, ducking in and out of the arched doorways, but the little boy seemed not to see them and they paid him no mind._

_Augustus watched with a detached sort of intrigue as fat tears welled up in the child’s eyes and almost immediately rolled down his brown cheeks, dripping off the soft curve of his chin. He sniffled, wiped his runny nose on the back of his hand, but the tears just kept coming. Augustus blinked._ He’s crying, _he registered all of a sudden,_ do something. _He scrambled to his feet and hurriedly made his way over to the boy, feeling bad at only just comforting him now._

_“Hello,” Augustus said awkwardly, coming to stand in front of the child. The sun beat down on the back of his neck and the boy, much smaller than Augustus, craned his neck up to look at the Odelian. His thick black eyelashes were clumped with tears and his full bottom lip trembled, “Um, is everything alright?” Augustus asked hesitantly._

_The boy jerked forward before Augustus could react and suddenly he has two armfuls of sobbing Shairin. He looked around wildly for someone who could help but the sun seemed to have made all the servants evaporate as if they were made of water. The small boy clung onto Augustus with more strength than he appeared to have in his little arms, and his hair tickled Augustus’ chin. He was wailing now, loud and almost obnoxious. Hesitantly Augustus lifted his arms and curled them around the crying child._

_“It’s alright,” he said tensely, not really knowing how to act._

_“I-I’m lost,” the boy cried. Augustus smiled._

_“No you’re not, you live here.”_

_The child shook his head, face buried in Augustus’ shoulder as he cried harder. A wave of protectiveness washed over Augustus – he was the youngest of three and always wanted a little sibling; it would appear he had acquired one._

_No longer finding their game of impromptu hide and seek entertaining, the other children slipped out from behind the lemon tree and stalked over to the two embracing boys._

_“We’re sorry about him,” the oldest boy said, crossing his arms over his chest. The others looked at the boy in Augustus’ arms in distaste and he stopped crying, pulling away from the Odelian to look up at his friends with big, innocent eyes._

_“I thought you left,” his bottom lip wobbled again. He ran to the closest girl and grasped her hands, looking at her pleadingly, “I-I thought s-something bad happened...”_

_“Omarian!” the girl hissed, freeing her hands abruptly, “Why are you so slow? We were only playing a game.”_

_The little boy looked at his feet, which were hidden in silky green slippers, and cradled his hands into his chest. He looked small and scared and lost. Subconsciously Augustus took a step closer to him, a move that wasn’t lost on the group._

_“Don’t mind him, he’s just simple,” the oldest boy said. One of the girls snorted in amusement._

_“Simple?! He’s plain stupid.”_

_“I-I’m not stupid!” the little boy exclaimed in his defence. His cheeks were flushed with emotion and more tears brimmed in his eyes. The younger girl groaned in annoyance, “I-I,” the child tried to hold back tears, “I’m smart! I remember all the stories from the books, and all the names o-of flowers-“_

_“Shut up. I don’t want to play anymore,” the eldest girl said, crossing her arms over her chest, “It’s no fun with you, Ari, you always have to make a fuss.”_

_“I-I was just lost...,” the little boy continued to stare at the ground, clearly hurt._

_“You_ know _this courtyard, Ari!” the girl yelled, “You_ live _here! This is_ your _harem! God, why are you such an idiot?!”_

_The little boy flinched. Augustus gritted his teeth._

_“Enough,” he said._ Is this what all children in the Shairin Empire are like? _“He’s clearly upset, no need to shout at him.”_

_The children glared at Augustus; they had clearly seen a potential play partner in him, someone with long legs that could keep up with their games. But now they turned hostile._

_“Fine,” the oldest boy bristled, “If you want to defend him then you can play with him.”_

_He stalked off and the other children hurried after him like two sheep, glancing at Augustus and the mysterious boy in distaste. Augustus sighed when they disappeared in one of the arches and looked at his newfound companion. The boy had tears silently dripping down his chubby cheeks and was glaring stubbornly at the ground as if it was the one that had offended him. Augustus hadn’t even been at the Harem a full day and he was already getting into trouble. Well, it couldn’t be helped now._

_“Hey,” he said gently, a little awkwardly, “Don’t cry.” He reached out and patted the boy’s head. His waves were soft to touch. When the child didn’t acknowledge Augustus, the Odelian knelt on the ground in front of him and peered up at his teary face. The boy blinked at him and another tear tumbled down his face. Augustus smiled, “My name is Augustus Ciprianus and I’m from the Odelian Empire. You can just call me Gus. It’s my first day here and I’m looking for a friend,” that was a lie – Augustus would have been perfectly happy being alone and focusing on his studies to make his parents proud, “Do you want to be my friend?”_

_The little boy blinked again, looking like a lost little deer, “Amar says I’m a bad friend,” he admitted in a little voice. Augustus reached out and took the boy’s hands into his own – they were warm and it took a moment for the child to relax them out of the fists they had been in._

_“I disagree with Amar,” Augustus said. There was something about this child that pulled him in, made the boy want to befriend him and protect him, “What’s your name?”_

_The boy sniffled, “It’s Omarian. But you can call me Ari.”_

_“Ari,” Augustus smiled, and then his smile faltered, “Wait. Omarian...as in, Omarian Abazza? The son of the Leahil?”_

_“Yes,” Omarian nodded excitedly, a small smile appearing on his chubby face, “I’m a Prince!” he said proudly._

_“Right,” Augustus cleared his throat and stood up, “That’s...nice.” He hadn’t expected to meet one of the two Princes, much less become ‘friends’ with one. It baffled him that the other children had been so rude and disrespectful to the son of the Leahil, “Who were your friends?”_

_Ari sniffled again, as if the memory of them made him sad, “My cousins,” he mumbled, “They’re only here for the summer, and then they’re going back to Amran.” He looked at Augustus uncertainly, “Do you want to be friends with them?” he asked, voice disappointed._

_“No,” Augustus assured him quickly, “No, I want to be friends with you.”_

_Another smile bloomed on Ari’s face – Augustus thought it was a much nicer look than all the tears._

_***_

_Apparently it was tradition in the Shairin Empire to have all the children sleep in one room, something that frustrated Augustus. Back in Odelia he had had his own bedroom with his own bed – he didn’t get scared at night and was big enough to sleep alone. And yet here he found himself in a huge, spacious room with half of it being taken up by piles of blankets and pillows that made a massive shared bed for the children of the Harem. It was stifling hot and they were all pressed together, sweaty skin sticking together. It was disgusting and uncomfortable and Augustus was sure he’d never fall sleep here. He stared at the canopy overhanging the bed and listened to the whispers echoing through the dozen or so children gathered in the room. Would they ever be quiet? Augustus had no idea, not like it mattered since he wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway._

_Frustrated, the boy turned to face the wall because thankfully he had been granted this place. He pressed his forehead against the cool stone and for a moment felt relief as his body temperature went down. But next to him was a boy only four summers old, deeply asleep, and he kicked, wedging his foot uncomfortably into Augustus’ spine. The boy wanted to scream. A servant came in and reprimanded the older children for talking, urging them to go to sleep. It was easier said than done; the moment they were left to their devices, the whispery conversations resumed. Augustus thought he would lose his mind._

_Suddenly Augustus heard several groans and sighs of annoyance._

_“He’s doing it again,” someone whispered in exasperation._

_“Ugh, I can’t sleep when he’s whimpering like that.”_

_“Kick him, Hund.”_

_“Oi,” there was a dull thud as if someone had, in fact, kicked someone else, “Oi, Omarian, stop looking for attention.”_

_Augustus’ heart squeezed._ Ari? _It was dark in the room and honestly, all the children looked the same to Augustus with their dark hair and dark eyes and dark skin; they were related after all. So he hadn’t noticed that Ari was here. Now he sat up abruptly and squinted at the other side of the bed, where the commotion was happening. Several children were hissing and whispering to each other angrily and Augustus moved on his own accord, standing up. He glanced at the door, ensuring no servant would come in to shout at him for getting up, and tip-toed to the other side of the room._

_And sure enough Ari was sleeping there, by the wall. Except there was something wrong – the child was tense, shoulders rigid and arms at his sides, hands clenched into fists. He was laying on his back and staring directly upwards, dark eyes glassy and filled with tears, jaw clenched. His thick eyebrows twitched but it looked as if he had been frozen, and he let out little, barely audible whimpers under his breath._

_“What’s wrong with him?” Augustus whispered. The children that had been leaning over Omarian looked up – Augustus didn’t recognise any of them._

_“He’s pretending,” one of the boys rolled his eyes, “He does this ever so often, pretends he can’t move in his sleep so we cuddle him. He’s just a little sissy and is scared of the dark.”_

_Ari let out another whimper that seemed to combat that. Augustus looked at him._

_“He doesn’t look like he’s pretending,” he admitted._

_“Well, he is,” another boy grumbled. The children returned to their places on the bed, turning their backs to Ari, “Just leave him be, he always stops eventually.”_

_A tear rolled silently down Ari’s cheek, but he hadn’t moved, hadn’t even looked at Augustus._

_“Hey,” the Odelian looked at the boy sleeping next to the Prince, “Swap places with me.”_

_“What?” the boy frowned. Augustus shrugged and the boy wiped sweat off his forehead._

_“You don’t want to sleep next to him, right? And I have a spot by the wall, it’s cooler over there.”_

_“Hey, shut up you two!” someone hissed down the line. In the time the Ari thing had occurred, the majority of the room had fallen asleep. Ari’s neighbour rolled his eyes and sat up._

_“Fine, but I’m not swapping back when you get bored.” He stood up and stalked over to Augustus’ place by the wall. The Odelian didn’t even hesitate in laying down next to Ari. He had to admit it was much more uncomfortable to be squished between two bodies radiating warmth rather than one, but he was ready for the sacrifice. He turned his back to whoever was laying behind him so he could face Ari._

_“Hey,” he whispered, barely audible, and grabbed Ari’s shoulders. But the boy didn’t budge when Augustus tried to turn him, as if he was made of stone. The Odelian futilely tried again with the same result before giving up. Instead he leaned over Ari, so he was the only thing in the boy’s line of vision. With some difficulty, the teary Prince focused his dark eyes on Augustus. The older boy smiled down at him, “You’re alright,” he whispered, and Ari stopped whimpering. Augustus wriggled his arm underneath the Prince’s head and curled it protectively, with his other hand reaching down to clasp the boy’s hand. He had to forcefully wedge his fingers into the Prince’s clenched fist, “I’m here with you. I don’t mind if you’re scared of the dark.”_

_Ari sniffled, breathing hard._

_Augustus didn’t really know what he was doing, but he just didn’t want this boy to be sad. Everybody was so mean to him. Augustus squeezed his hand._

_“I get scared sometimes too,” he admitted quietly, “Especially here. It’s scary being away from my family,” he tried not to get emotional and focused instead on Ari. “I want to be a good son and make my parents proud but this harem is also so different and I don’t know how to act. It’s so hot right now I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep. I’m anxious my Airyan isn’t good enough and that I have an accent...”_

_Ari’s nose twitched and Augustus felt a feather-light squeeze in his hand. Warmth spread through his chest; maybe him talking was helping Ari. He didn’t look as scared anymore, eyes trained on Augustus._

_“I’m really glad we’re friends now,” he continued, “You’re my first friend here, and it makes me feel less lonely.” Ari’s mouth opened and he let out a little shaky gasp that sounded borderline like a sob._

_“Shhh!” someone hissed._

_Augustus pressed his forehead down to Ari’s – it was sticky with sweat and warm but Augustus didn’t mind._

_“It’s alright,” he repeated and Ari twitched and his eyelashes fluttered; whatever had made him freeze was slowly releasing its hold. The squeeze on Augustus’ hand grew stronger and his heavy breathing eased, “It’s alright, I’ll protect you.”_

_The tension went out of Ari’s body and he slumped against the pillows, gasping. His eyes fluttered shut, then open, then tears were running down his face. The little boy pressed both hands over his mouth to try and stifle his sob, scared of waking and annoying the other children. Augustus laid down and pulled the Prince against him, shoving Ari’s face into his shoulder to keep the boy quiet._

_“You’re alright, I’ve got you,” he stroked the boy’s back. Ari clung to him the way he had in the courtyard, shaking. He was like a little baby, but Augustus didn’t mind. He always wanted to protect someone._

**_Late Winter, Year 202CE (2 Years Later)_ **

**_The Baijin Patch, Tekoshi._ **

**_Mairi Empire_ **

**__ **

How long will you stare? _The boy blinked slowly, the effort almost destroying the last of the energy in his body. His chin rested on the top of his knees that the  child had cradled to his chest long ago – he had lost all feeling in his limbs now, but couldn’t bring himself to care. He blinked again._ Stop staring.

_It was so quiet now, eerily quiet after the moans and gasps from last night. The cold light of dawn fell in through the dirty window and painted patterns on the bare wooden floor, smothered in dust. The room was small, too small. It would start smelling soon, Tomoya knew. It would reek of rot and decay, a smell familiar to the boy despite the fact that he was only thirteen winters old. The whole house smelled like that, like death. The building was old and rickety and through the icy winter Tomoya had been sure it would be blown away by the wind that howled around and slipped inside the rooms through the gaps in the walls. Gods, what a horrible house this was, barely even a house really. Families lived cramped in singular rooms and died through the winter; from the cold, from starvation, from disease. They slept on thin mats and drank dirty rainwater they collected from the streets outside...that is, if they had strength to move._

_Lachi fever was common, a deadly omen that overhung the Baijin Patch. It was the warmest Patch in the Mairi Empire, they didn’t get snow, thank the Goddess, but it didn’t stop the chill from creeping into the bones of the inhabitants, and killing them._

_When you got Lachi fever you coughed up blood, the whites of your eyes turned red, and you’d sweat as if the sun Goddess Taiyoo herself had come down and kissed your brow. That was a lovely metaphor for a horrible way to die. It would take days, weeks, Tomoya knew because he had witnessed it almost every day for the past month, helplessly watched as the disease spread from room to room, from family to family. It used to be so loud in the house, coughing of adults, crying of children, wailing of newborns. Now, it was eerily silent._

_The raspy gasps of air Tomoya’s parents had been letting out all night stopped now too, and Tomoya didn’t know if he was glad or if he resented the fact. His own breath seemed loud in his ears as he breathed through the cotton face mask that covered the lower part of his face, protecting him even a little from the deadly claws of the fever. He felt fine, he wasn’t sick, which was why the coughs and laments of his parents had agonized him all night as he laid on a mat as far away from them as possible, back to them._

_When had they died? Tomoya wished he had paid attention now._

_He could see his parents, laying curled and crooked on their mat as if they had fought an invisible demon before finally giving in. Their arms were curled grotesquely, eyes staring blindly at the ceiling that dripped water. Tomoya’s father had bloody spit in his beard. His mother’s long, black hair seemed to strangle her face. Their skin, usually pale anyway, was white as paper. Tomoya didn’t have to go up to them to know they were dead, and he didn’t want to._

_He felt hollow. The house felt hollow. How many people had died tonight? It was peculiarly silent and Tomoya hated it. He didn’t know what to do, so he just stared, but he had stared for hours and he knew he had to do_ something. _He blinked again, silently hoping that when he opened his eyes the corpses would be gone. But no, his parents remained in the room. Was Tomoya meant to feel sad? He felt as if the two of them had been ghosts for months, everyone in the Mairi Empire was a ghost, the paranoid Emperor isolated his kingdom, cutting it off from the rest of the world with a tall, un-climable wall and left the people trapped inside to starve through the crop-less winters..._

_The wall._

_Tomoya blinked faster._

_He had no family in the Baijin Patch, it had always been him and his parents. Many men in the Patch found the only way to survive into their old years was to become a Royal Guardian, a warrior of sorts that was pledged fundamentally to the Emperor and the empire. It paid well, and the empire organised for the Guardians to have food and shelter. To become a Guardian though, you had to train for many long, hard years at the Tekoshi Wall that surrounded the huge empire. Tomoya didn’t even know how to wield a sword but the idea of being fed and taken care of, of someone telling him what to do, sounded heavenly right now. He was hopeless himself, without direction and he was afraid. He was afraid he would die, he was afraid of his parents’ bodies lying so close to him, he was afraid of being alone._

_He felt a distant pang of heartbreak in the depth of his chest. He didn’t want to be in this diseased house when he finally broke and cried over his situation. While he was in shock he could still leave._

_With an immense amount of difficulty, the boy raised himself on his thin, shaking legs. He swallowed, feelings as if his body didn’t belong to him, but that was just probably because he had been sat still for so long. He looked at the window – the sky was grey. He looked at his parents. He felt he should put something over their faces, so they didn’t stare up so coldly, but the shudder of disgust that went through him prevented him from doing so. He didn’t want to touch them, or even look at them._

_Feeling a little guilty for not being warmer, Tomoya turned to the door. He cleared his throat._

_“Goodbye, ma. Goodbye, pa,” his voice was hoarse and devoid of emotion, “I’m going to miss you. I’m sorry.”_

_Then he left, trying to ignore the corpses staring at him from the rooms, families piled on top of each other, white as paper._

**_Spring, Year 203CE (A Year Later)_ **

**_Din-Moher Harem, Antasa, Hadia_ ** **.**

**_Shairin Empire._ **

**__ **

_Seraf Abazza sat on his throne, watching the wedding celebrations in front of him flourish._ His _wedding celebrations. What a fortnight it had been. Exactly fifteen days earlier, his father has passed away after an ulcer burst in his stomach. And just like that, his twenty one summer old heir and eldest son, Seraf, had become the Leahil of Hadia. It was still overwhelming to think that he had the command of an entire country._

_He didn’t get time to adjust though, because that same day it was announce he would be marrying his second cousin from Jarrej, Burha Astra. He hadn’t met Burha until just a few days ago, when her caravan had arrived at the Harem. Here she was now, spinning in the centre of the imperial hall, arms raised above her head. She looked gorgeous, her caramel-coloured, jewel-encrusted hair falling to her waist in soft waves while her deep indigo skirts faired about her bronze waist as her as she danced. There was a smile on her face, but uncertainty in her eyes. Her feet were bare, golden ankles visible when the hem of her dress lifted from the ground. Around her were the females of the Harem – Seraf’s royal cousins, his mother, his nieces, Burha’s sisters that had come down for the celebrations. They held hands and laughed loudly as they spun in the opposite way to Burha._

_Seraf couldn’t bring himself to be happy. Maybe it was because he was mourning his father, or maybe it was because when he looked at Burha he doubted he could love her. Urofis, the religion of the Shairin, was based on six scrolls that a traveller was said to have found in the desert hundreds of years ago. The first Scroll taught that love was to conquer all, and so divorces and multiple marriages were common in the Shairin Empire, and classes were forgotten when people fell in love. Still, it was expected of a Leahil to have multiple husbands and wives, and to take the first one on his ascension. But it all felt so rushed, and Seraf hated the thought of breaking Burha’s heart if he were to fall in love with another._

_His head was clouded by dark thoughts, he was too young to be under this much pressure and he couldn’t even enjoy his own wedding ceremony that was supposed to last until dawn, which was when he was supposed to whisk Burha away and consummate their marriage, if they so wished. Seraf didn’t think he could get aroused right now even if he wanted to, which was bizarre since Burha was an absolutely stunning woman._

_“Husband.”_

_Seraf had been so lost in thought he hadn’t noticed his bride approaching and now she slid into the throne at his right. She smiled at him, but it seemed forced._

_“Burha,” he gave her a pale reflection of her own expression, “How is your night?”_

_The girl was flushed from dancing. She inclined her head, “Yes...it’s enjoyable though perhaps it would be more so if you didn’t look as if someone had just murdered your first-born.”_

_Seraf flinched and blinked at her. She sighed and slumped in her throne, watching the crowd who had surged onto the floor and were now dancing to the loud, cheerful music. Exotic dancers slithered among the wedding guests, alluring and half naked, pulling giggling girls and appreciative boys into their arms and spinning them around._

_“I get the feeling you didn’t wish to marry me,” Burha said, but she didn’t sound disappointed, just resigned. Seraf opened his mouth to lie and disagree but she lifted up her hand to stop him, still looking at the guests, “Don’t bother, I don’t want to hear your sweet words.”_

This isn’t going to work. _Helplessness descended on the young Leahil, “Burha I-“_

_But the girl turned to him a smiled, a true smile, “My dear husband, don’t frown so,”  she leaned her chin in her hand and looked at him with her hazel eyes that made a start contrast with her dark skin, “We can still be friends, no? Companions. Take another wife, I don’t mind.”_

_Seraf blinked, “I...uh...”_

_She reached out and squeezed his hand, “If you wish to know, I prefer the company of women myself, but I am here to be your friends and advisor, and whatever else you might want of me. So smile.”_

_She was speaking casually, as if this whole affair, this whole royal wedding that had been in preparation for two weeks, was a mere inconvenience._

_A commotion sounded from the dance floor and Seraf and Burha looked up to see that two children had barrelled their way to the middle, or rather one had, pulling the other one along against his will. One of the boys, the smaller one, was Seraf’s little brother Omarian. The front parts of his dark, wavy hair were braided back and he had flowers in his hair, undoubtedly bestowed upon him by the many beautifully dressed women. He was laughing, dark cheeks flushed, and gripping the hands of his best friend as he tried to force him to dance with him. Augustus, tall and lanky and pale at the age of ten, looked horribly out of place, blushing as people gathered around him and Arian and cooed. Seraf couldn’t help but smile – since Gus showed up at the Harem three years ago, his little brother had been so much happier. The Leahil watched now as Arian gripped one of Gus’ hands and used it as a means to spin himself around – despite his embarrassment, a shy, fond smile bloomed on Augustus’ face._

_“They’re sweet,” Burha said, “Your little brother and his friend.”_

_Seraf glanced at her, and saw a pretty smile on her lips, “Yes,” he agreed, “Gus makes him happier than anyone I’ve ever seen, they’re practically inseparable.”_

_“I can see that,” Burha’s eyes met Seraf’s and they exchanged genuine smiles of fondness, “They’re also in love.”_

_Seraf tensed, “They’re children,” he looked away._

_“Yes, but perhaps they will be a good match,” Burha mused. Seraf shook his head and sighed._

_“Augustus is going to be a warrior, I don’t even know if he will choose to remain here or return to Odelia when he comes of age. And Arian...,” the Leahil’s brows knitted, “Arian has always been different, not really there, you could say. The doctors say he’ll be simple for the rest of his life.”_

_“He doesn’t look simple to me,” Burha said. Augustus had finally given into his younger companion and the two were freely dancing together, giggling and spinning each other around, clumsy and happy. Seraf felt a pang in his chest._

_“I want Ari to be happy,” he said quietly, “I want him to fall in love with someone. But he is a Prince and the Shairin Empire have many enemies...,” Seraf squeezed his eyes shut, “I am afraid that I will have to arrange a marriage for him, that I will have to force him to...,” he trailed off, unable to bear the thought, and also feeling guilty – his marriage to Burha had been arranged._

_The bride reached across and wrapped her warm fingers around Seraf’s. She smiled, “It is a trouble for another day. For now, let them dance.”_

_Seraf smiled back at her, deciding it might not be so bad to have an ally in this Harem that had suddenly and unwillingly become his._

**_Autumn, Year 205CE (2 Years Later)_ **

**_Cervantes Village, Adanard, Beavnird._ **

**_The North Islands._ **

**__ **

_Maganna Uthreth stood by the shore, letting the gentle waves lit by the moonlight froth over her bare feet. The old woman raised her arms, silencing the huge crowd of Dreiyards gathered in front of her. All of the villagers were here tonight to witness history; women and children and men alike, their excited, boisterous voices silenced singularly by the most powerful Druid of the Tuath clan._

_“Clan,” Maganna called, voice croaky and harsh with age. The Dreiyards were still, dark shadows as huge fires burned at their backs, “Friends. Family. We have come to the sea tonight to pay tribute to our Goddess Sere.”_

_Simultaneously the Dreiyards pressed their closed fists over their hearts and bowed their heads._

_“May she protect and deliver us to her depths,” they all muttered in reverence, the children clumsily a few moments behind. But nobody minded – this was one of the few moments where the villagers were solemn. It was a celebration._

_The Druid raised her staff up with a trembling hand, all eyes were on her. Her bones hurt and creaked; she only had some more winters to live. Out of the forest trotted a majestic stag, his antlers rising tall above his head. He was no ordinary stag, he was the representation of the magic within Maganna, her spirit protector, Gwydion. He padded over slowly and stood by her, hooves sinking in the sand of the beach._

_“Let us begin the initiation!” Maganna called, and it was as if the spell of silence was broken – the Dreiyards erupted in wild, animalistic cheers, raising their weapons and cups of mead above their heads._

_Two children were pulled forward by Chief Beorthion; a boy and a girl. They were both small, thin things, trembling as the cold breeze blew in from the sea. Unlike the rest of the Dreiyards they weren’t dressed in furs but rather white, thin shifts that didn’t protect them from the chill of the North Islands. The little girl’s jaw was clenched – she had cut her pale brown curls herself at the chin with a rusty knife. She was looking on with determination and strength that exceeded her twelve winters. Beside her was a boy, a frail, scared little thing, forest green eyes darting around in fear, tufts of amber hair caressed by the wind. He was a winter younger than the girl, and unable to keep his composure as well as her._

_“Come, children,” Maganna held out her wrinkled, trembling hands, holding her staff in the crook of her elbow. She remembered herself when she was first initiated, winters and winters ago. Gods, it had been so long ago. Now she watched as the two ducklings walked towards her. The girl walked calm and steady but Maganna saw the uncertainty in her eyes – the boy let go of Beorthion’s hand and dashed forward, hurriedly grasping Maganna’s own hand as if losing human contact for too long would kill him. Maganna almost smiled; the old woman had no children of her own but ten winters ago she had found this boy in the forest when he was only a handful of winters old, crying and cold and alone, and had taken him in, sensing the potential for magic inside him. She hadn’t been wrong._

_“Clan,” Maganna called, and her voice carried over the crowd who grew silent again, “I present to you these two druids, Orena O’Dannah of Cervantes, my own niece, and Callian Cinnéide of Dumbria who is now one of us. After my death,” the word caused a murmur of dissatisfaction to flow over the crowd, “one of these two will become the next head Druid and guide us into battle, lead us through famine and sickness, and eventually show us the path to Sere’s watery gates.”_

_The cheer that erupted made Orena O’Dannah stand up straighter and prouder, while Callian curled into Maganna’s side, clinging onto her hand, overwhelmed._

_“Come now,” Maganna said quietly and turned to the sea, gripping the hands of the children. Together they walked in – she could feel tension on her left, where Callian was holding her hand. He was scared of the water, he was cold. He’d have to learn to overcome his fear if he wanted to become a good Druid, and so Maganna pulled him along forcefully as the clan watched on with bated breath. Many times during initiation the chosen failed; they drowned. Both Callian and Orena knew this._

_“You know what you must do,” Maganna stopped when the freezing water reached her waist, goosebumps erupting on her arms. She wouldn’t get sick from this, her magic was too strong, and tied to Gwydion who stood watching at the beach._

_Orena didn’t hesitate – her fingers, calloused from shooting arrows all day, slipped from Maganna’s as she confidently strode in deeper, the water climbed up her body, past her shoulders and towards her chin._

_“Callian,” Maganna said. The boy shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. He was an awkward, thin thing and if he failed to become a druid Maganna feared there would be no use of him, he wasn’t strong enough to be a warrior and go on raids, “Callian, you must.”_

_“I don’t want to,” Callian whispered._

_“_ Callian,” _Maganna hissed, releasing his hand, “Go.”_

 _Orena dove into the icy ocean and Callian, more out of panic and fear of being left behind, clumsily scrambled after her and disappeared under the waves. The water frothed and then the waves evened out and continued to lap lazily. Seconds swam by painfully slowly. Maganna clasped her hands in front of her._ Sere, _she prayed to the mermaid goddess,_ protect the children. Don’t take them, unless they are not ready.

_Time dragged on. Maganna’s heart felt heavy. What if she had made the wrong choice? Years of carefully planning and selecting the two children with the most potential could have amounted to nothing if they didn’t-_

_The two emerged from the water simultaneously, gasping and spluttering and beating at the waves.  Relief made Maganna’s shoulders sag as she watched the two swim towards her; Dreiyards did not know how to swim, but Sere had given this ability to the children, she had chosen them as Druids._

_“Good,” Maganna smiled, “You both did good.”_

_Orena was drenched but as she reached the shallows she stood, grinning, her shift sticking to her. Callian on the other hand appeared paler than usual, freckles sticking out against his cheeks. He hugged himself as his teeth clattered and winced when he heard the wild rallying from the shore. The trio returned there together._ I have made the right choice, _Maganna felt relived. The young druids weren’t ready to lead a village yet, but they would be soon and then she could pass in peace._

_Just as they were about to climb on shore, a black raven swooped down from the heavens and landed on Orena’s shoulder. She didn’t even flinch, smiling at it as it stared at her with its beady eyes. The crowd fell silent in awe._

_“Your spirit guardian,” Maganna said, “Sent by the God Anxo to guide you in your life.”_

_Orena smiled faintly, and with reverence said, “I shall call him Mannannan.”_

_“’tis a good name,” Beorthion, the chief, bellowed from shore._

_“What about mine?” Callian blurted, eyes darting about, “Do I get a spirit guardian?”_

_The arrogant, confident voice came from the crowd, “You already have one!” it called, teasing, “It’s a little bird, standing right here dripping wet and shivering like a suckling babe!”_

_Hot shame flooded Callian’s face as he heard snickers. His eyes landed on the culprit of the jest – a tall, blond, grinning boy who stood right next to Beorthion. Cal knew him; it was the smug son of the Chief, Roan. Cal shook harder, this time in anger._

_Beorthion hit his teenage son upside the head, “You will treat the druid with respect, Roan,” he barked. But the boy didn’t look moved, grinning right at Callian as if expecting a reaction out of him. Cal glared back, hands in fists. He had never spoken to Roan, who preferred to wrestle in the mud with his friends rather than learn about herbs like the druid. They had nothing in common except the fact they lived in the same village, and yet he was insulting Callian anyway. Was it because the boy wasn’t a Cervantes native? Was it because he was an orphan from another village, abandoned by his parents. Was it because he was ginger? Regardless, Callian would never forget his insult at such a key moment in his life._

_Maganna saw the fury ablaze in her young protégés eyes._

_“Clan!” she raised her arms above her head, “Let us celebrate, for the gods have bestowed beings of magic upon us. Come, to the village, to the mead and the dancing.”_

_A happy cheer bubbled from the gathered people – drinking and feasting was what the Dreiyards did best, right after raiding. Eagerly the crowd moved from the beach and up among the trees, past which the fires burning in Cervantes could be seen._

_Callian trailed behind, feeling like an outside, as always. When he entered the village at the end of the procession he barely felt the heat from the fires. People headed to the mead hall, already singing. They would be drinking till dawn – Orena was swept away by her family and friends but Cal didn’t care; she wasn’t his friend anyway, she was his rival._

_He detached himself from the crowd eagerly, and headed into the quieter part of the village – most cottages were abandoned in favour of celebration and so Callian wasn’t stopped by anyone as he headed home; he doubted anyone even noticed his absence. He had always lived alone – Maganna was his mentor and guardian, but she was not his mother and she did not cook for him or make his bed. He had to do that all alone since he could remember._

_His cottage was cold when he entered and he shivered, still in his wet clothes. He headed to the fireplace and gently pressed his finger tips into the embers – they were still warm from his supper and Cal watched with pleasure as they glowed stronger, and shy flames slivered out. Soon enough the fire was happily blazing._

_That’s when Cal heard it – the soft, whimpery mewling. Scared and with his heart pounding the boy whirled around and looked around his one-room cottage. Herbs hung from the ceiling, his bed was made and strewn with magic books he had been reading. And there, on his pillows, was a bizarre, misshapen thing._

_Terrified, Cal approached slowly. Was it a monster?_

_But no. He exhaled in relief when he came closer and realised the shape was in fact just three newborn wildcats. He glanced around but their mother was nowhere to be seen. Had she come into Cal’s cottage and given birth on his bed? But there was no blood, no evidence of this. The three cats were curled around each other, all different colours, mewling gently._

_“Where did you come from?” Callian asked quietly, brushing his fingertips over their soft fur, still on edge. Their mewling turned into purring and Cal’s eyes widened with realisation and then he smiled. There it was, the evidence that him not drowning wasn’t a mistake, evidence that he was supposed to be here, that he had a chance of making something of himself  - his spirit guardians._

**_Summer, Year 209CE (4 Years Later)_ **

**_The Tekoshi Wall, The Baijin Patch, Tekoshi._ **

**_Mairi Empire._ **

**__ **

_It shouldn’t have been happening, and yet it was. The ‘this is the last time’s’ echoed through the secluded, dark corridor in hushed, feverish whispers_ _uttered from the lovers as they kissed against the wall, hands blindly groping at each other’s bodies. How long had this been going on? This sneaking around, stealing kisses? How much longer would it last?_

_Hiroa Kage, the beautiful young daughter of one of the Emperor’s Sacred Lords, Lord Kage, was pressed into the crevice in the wall, a smile on her bright red lips, pale hands searching the body of her partner. Her bed kimono was open, her body curvy and naked beneath. Pressed against her was a Royal Guardian, a tall strong man with long black hair tied back by a piece of leather. A few strands escaped his normally neat hair style as he exchanged passionate whispers and kisses with the Lady, strong arms braced on either side of her head in an attempt to stop himself from touching her seductive body._

_“Why must you always resist, Tomoya?” Hiroa asked, sliding her graceful fingers into the Guardian’s hair, “My father won’t know. Nobody will know,” she kissed him again._

_“I am not worthy,” Tomoya whispered against her sweet mouth. He had always thought he’d do this with his wife, but Hiroa was irresistible even though Tomoya knew they could never be together because of their class divide._

_“Yes you are,” Hiroa giggled and her nimble hands reached to pull open the belt of Tomoya’s own kimono. As it parted she reached for his manhood, “Come, nobody will see us.” In the half-light from the burning braziers it was easy to believe her, it was as if the outside world ceased to exist._

_Tomoya lost himself in sin and pleasure, his reservations fading away the moment he sheathed himself in Hiroa’s body._ This must be love, _the Guardian decided – for why else would he ever behave in this way that was so out of character for him? He was a loyal man, and he was loyal to Lord Kage, and yet he was sleeping around with his daughter behind the man’s back. If they were found out Tomoya would be thrown off the wall; all the years training as the Guardian would be for nothing, and he’d die in disgrace._

_As always guilt descended onto Tomoya as soon as they finished. He set Hiroa back on her two feet and the girl was smirking blissfully as she tied her kimono back up, hiding herself from view. She smoothed down her raven hair and just like that it was almost as if nothing happened, the blush on her pale face and the sleepy ecstasy in her eyes the only indication that she had just had relations with Tomoya._

_The Guardian’s stomach was in knots._ This is the last time, _he told himself uselessly. He knew it wasn’t, and she knew it wasn’t either._

_“I need to tell you something, Tommy,” Hiroa was leaning on the wall now, still as seductive and confident as ever._

_“What is it, my love?” Tomoya pulled her close and kissed her hair. He wondered if eloping was an option..._

_“My father has set a date for my wedding, in the winter.”_

_Tomoya jerked away from her as if she had suddenly become a beacon of fire and burned him. He felt fear coil in his stomach and guilt reared its head again._

_“I...,” his mouth was dry, “But...you didn’t...I thought you didn’t have a fiancée.”_

_“I don’t, my love,” Hiroa assured him, as calm as ever. She reached for his hand and tugged him close again and he found himself unable to resist her._ I am weak. _“Suitors will begin to arrive in the next few days, begin to court me, then I will simply choose one.”_

_She seemed nonchalant, but Tomoya’s heart hurt. Was it that easy for her? Did Tomoya mean nothing to her? She would just throw him away and he’d have to watch her with some other man, a worthy man..._

_“We shouldn’t have done this,” Tomoya whispered, “We should have stayed pure until marriage, like the goddess Taiyoo teaches us to. Marriage is sacred, Hiroa-“_

_“Oh please,” the Lady rolled her eyes, “Marriage is a formality to ensure alliances. Besides,” she purred the last word, “I doubt any of those men will give me as much pleasure as you.”_

_“It’s not about pleasure, Hiroa!” Tomoya recoiled from her and faced the opposite wall, trying to free himself of her charm and beauty, “This is wrong. We need to end this now.”_

_Arms slithered beneath his own, curling over his chest._

_“Why?” Hiroa purred against Tomoya’s shoulder, “We have gone so far already, there is nothing to change. Let’s stay together until my wedding day, yes? Continue like this. It’s fun,” Hiroa kissed his shoulder._

_Tomoya slumped against her. He wanted to say no and stick to his convictions but it was so hard. He had no friends in the house, and he missed his companions at the Wall. Hiroa was the only warmth he had here, and he loved her, didn’t he? The words_ run away with me _pushed themselves onto his tongue but he stopped them from spilling out. He refused to end up in a dirty, miserable house like the ones his parents had died in. If Hiroa stayed here and married someone proper she would have a good life, and Tomoya could continue being a Guardian. So what if she didn’t love him? It didn’t matter._

_“I won’t sleep with you again,” Tomoya said._

_“You always say that,” Hiroa sighed and let go of him, sauntering off. She knew he’d come running back sooner or later._


	3. The Sound of Rain Upon the Glass

**Late Autumn, 212CE (3 years later)**

**Castle Darmont, Crasbury, Wildeshell.**

**Kingdom of Beauralt.**

****

Lysander hurried down the chilly corridor. He was bundled up in furs but with winter fast approaching his Castle failed to retain even the memory of warmth and he could feel his fingers trembling where they gripped the furs around his lightly muscled body. The twenty four winter old man had to force his teeth to not clatter and dismissed any yearnings for the heat of a fireplace. Oh how he wished he could just settled in his bed with a book and watch the flames crackle happily in the fireplace. But alas, there was business to attend to, as there was every day for the Lord Protector of Wildeshell.

Keeping the stride at Lysander’s side was another Lord; Baralthol Ridger, the head general of Wildeshell’s small and impoverished army. Unlike the Lord Protector who had grey furs about his shoulders, the Lord seemed not to feel the chill in the air. He was tall and young, with clear strength in his muscled body. His dark chestnut hair was pushed out of his face, and blue eyes sparkled intensely from his handsome face. At his waist he carried a great broadsword and a red cloak shifted at his back. When he spoke his voice was deep and full of confidence however it was Lysander who clearly kept the control in their conversation with his quiet and calm orders.

“...the Dreiyards are getting braver, my Lord,” Baralthol said animatedly, staring at Lysander’s face as the Lord looked right ahead.

“The Dreiyards have always been brave, Barry.”

Baralthol sighed in frustration, his gloved hand landing automatically on the pommel of his weapon, “Yes, but their raids are becoming fearless. Farnore has been attacked twice in the past month and there is word of some Northmen straying even further East, to the smaller villages. The people are terrified.”

Lysander was barely listening. Since the dawn of time Dreiyards had been a problem to the Beaus; the North Islands were dark and cold for the majority of the year, making it hard for crops to grow on its frosted over ground. But the Dreiyards, so devout to their mermaid goddess, never thought to relocate south, instead deciding to raid and pillage the closest shores of Beauralt and the Odelian Empire instead. Wildeshell had the displeasure of being the most northern part of the kingdom of Beauralt, jutting out awkwardly from the mainland. From Farnore, the north fishing village, it was only four hours by ship to the shores of Hangulla in the North Islands, making raids easy and frequent. Wildeshell simply didn’t have the army to man the shores though and the Dreiyards were like a plague, living off Wildeshell like fleas and taking pleasure in destruction.

But Lysander simply had bigger problems to worry about, “Yes, yes,” he muttered distractedly to Baralthol, “I’ll write to the King, Barry, and ask him to send more men.”

It wasn’t the first time they were having this conversation. Since Baralthol and Lysander were close in age their relationship was more amicable than between Lys and some of his other Masters, making it easier for Baralthol to put pressure on him about matters that he cared about. But the man was only in charge of a fraction of Wildeshell’s problems, and Lys was in charge with all of them. The Dreiyard problem would have to wait, perhaps even for a few more centuries.

Lys sniffled to prevent his nose from dripping as he and Baralthol arrived at the door to the Concilliar Room. He winced internally as he heard aggravated, heated voices drifting out; clearly the Masters were arguing once more. Baralthol finally fell silent and exchanged a look with his Lord, before Lysander pushed the door open.

It was almost like the day when he found out his father was dead – all of his Masters were gathered around the table in the centre. However there was no summery light – instead bare, blackened trees could be seen outside, their branches like claws reaching towards the steely sky. There were some new faces among the men gathered too, and some missing as the elderly Masters had passed away through the years. Estania Harkness was also missing, as a woman not allowed to be present during the meetings of the Privy Council.

“My Lord,” the Masters fell silent and hurriedly bowed as Lysander entered.

“Masters,” the man inclined his head. Baralthol closed the door behind him and Lys’ grey eyes swept over the map on the table. He felt a tightness in his chest as he saw the little green mermaids that represented the Dreiyards massed at the coastline of Wildeshell, “It appears you have been having a heated discussion. About what may I ask?”

The Masters glared at each other, some flushed, some with jaws clenched. It was not uncommon for them to fight, and since Lysander was such a young Lord Protector he sometimes found it hard to keep his seniors in check.

“Nothing, my Lord,” it was Lord Sullian who spoke, the Master of the Coffers. He was a young, watery pale man, thin and willowy with unnerving eyes and an eerie presence. Still, he had a brilliant mind which was why Lysander had appointed him. His voice was measured and cold.

“Well, let us begin then,” Lys inclined his head, not particularly wanting to break up a brawl in that instance, “Who would like to start?”

“I do,” Baralthol didn’t even give the other Masters a chance to speak as he jerked forward, towards the map. Sullian’s eye twitched barely noticeably and Bronyan, who remained Lys’ Master of Household, muttered something inaudibly into his white beard. Baralthol ignored them both and brought out one big hand over the map. However instead of reaching for the mermaids in the North Islands his fingers dance Southward, to the brown continent of Voubrenia. From here he grasped several golden figures shaped like men and scattered them in the Albe Bay, a half-moon area of the sea bordered by the Odelian Empire and Beauralt. Lys suddenly he felt nauseous.

“Our watchers have spotted Voubren fleet at the edge of the bay this morning, Lord,” Baralthol said. Lysander clasped his furs tighter, hoping none of the men saw him pale.

“And you thought it more important to mention the Dreiyards over this?” he asked, voice tight.

“They’re not attacking, my Lord!” Baralthol exclaimed, “They are hanging back, watching us-“

“They’re trapping us,” Lysander interrupted, seeing how the golden figures managed to somehow cut off Wildeshell’s access to the Albe sea.

“Nonsense!” Bronyan spluttered, pushing his glasses up his hawk nose, “We have perfect access to Vermille Bay-“

“Which is a feasting ground for Dreiyards,” Lysander interrupted again, moving several mermaids angrily into said bay, “The Voubren are the single most powerful Kingdom in the world, with the biggest armies and fleets. _They_ are a bigger threat than Dreiyard raiders.” He was feeling a headache coming on and he wanted to lie down somewhere warm. He had had a long, long day. Why were his Masters not seeing the threats of this situation? He exhaled calmly and made eye-contact with Lord Rassel. Lys had made him his Lord Chancellor almost immediately after becoming the Protector, since he knew he could trust the old man. Even now the Master was looking at Lys with warmth in his eyes, his bushy beard now more grey than brown, “Have the Voubren made any demands?”

“We all know what they want,” the cold, gritty voice came from Archbishop Rochon, a tall and spindly man with deep wrinkles in his pale face, and calculating narrow eyes full of mistrust. He had a thick golden chain around his neck from which hung a circle enveloped in flames – the symbol of the religion of the Beaus, Ilyndo.“They want sin and abomination.”

“Thankyou, Archbishop,” Lysander said coolly, ignoring the pangs in his heart.

“However you look at it,” Baralthol crossed his arms over his broad chest, “We are being attacked on two fronts. Not even mentioning the war in the Shairin Empire-“

“You’re right, _don’t_ mention it,” Sullian practically growled.

“Sin and abomination, the lot of them,” Archbishop Rochon hissed, “We should annihilate them before they continue in their dirty deeds. Female rulers, marriages of the same sex, whoring, free loving and adultery. I say we put an end to these foul acts.”

Lysander gripped the table.

“Easy to say, Rochon,” Baralthol spat, “Our army is a joke.”

“Then we buy one,” Bronyan interjected. “Plenty of sell-swords wandering about.”

“With what money?” Sullian’s cheeks were flushed in anger.

“Master Sullian is right, my Lords,” Rassel spoke for the first time, effectively silencing the others if only for a moment, “We have no coin to pay our own men, let alone an army of mercenaries,” his reasoning making Lysander feel not quite so alone.

“There is a way to get the money, my Lord,” Baralthol turned to Lysander, “a very simple way, if we simply agree to the Contract of Chains-“

“No,” Lysander said icily, “I do not condone slavery, Baralthol, and I will not fight you on this matter again,” he looked over his Masters, the ones who were supposed to help him govern and protect Wildeshell, and saw how selfish they all were – each wanted their own gain and disregarded the needs of the kingdom as a whole, “King Ormond might have welcomed such barbarities into Beauralt but what Wildeshell needs is stability before the winter, not angry people kidnapped from their homeland and forced to work in our snowy fields.”

“They could man the defences so our own men wouldn’t freeze to death in the winter months,” Bronyan complained.

“Don’t be such an old fool, Bronyan,” Baralthol snorted. Bronyan glared.

“Who are you calling old, child?”

Baralthol leaned on the map, “Do you really think that those slaves would not turn against us the first chance they got? If they so much as saw how the Dreiyards pillage and raid our villages they would be behind them in no time. We need _trusted_ men on the shores, men from Briarwhyte and Ayradora.”

“Enough,” Lysander released his furs in order to rub the gap between his eyebrows in an attempt to itch his headache away, “Lord Rassel?”he asked with hope.

“My Lord, I fear there is little we can do with our own army. The best course to take is to ask King Ormond for help once more.”

“Pathetic,” Rochon hissed.

“Shut up,” Baralthol snarled at him, “We’re weak, there is _nothing_ we can do without the help from the South-“

“Lord Patran,” Lys turned to his mostly quiet secretary, trying to ignore the fighting of the Masters, “Begin to draft another letter to the King, if you please. Push for him to send us more men, emphasise that it is urgent, and then bring it to me to sign. I want it sent by nightfall.”

“As you wish my Lord,” Patran, a small and fragile old man who looked like a cross between a mouse and a homeless beggar, nodded.

“Thank you,” Lys offered him a small smile.

“My Lord,” Patran said quickly while he still held Lysander’s attention; he reached into the sleeves of his huge cloak and pulled out a letter, “This came for you earlier, perhaps now it would be appropriate to...,” he trailed off and held the letter out. Lysander plucked it from his fingers and felt a wave of nausea wash over him when he saw the seal on it – it was golden and seemed to shimmer in the monotony of the grey Concilliar room.

“It is another one from King Sef, my Lord,” Patran said, but Lys already knew. He swallowed and the room fell silent. He could feel the eyes of his Lords drilling into him and a blush began to creep up his pale neck. Lys quickly shoved his chin into his furs, trying to ignore the judgement that now hung in the air.

“Have you read it, Patran?” Lysander asked, forcing his voice to remain steady and impassive. The secretary nodded his head but didn’t meet Lys’ eye.

“Yes my Lord. It...is troubling, my Lord. Perhaps it is best not to throw it in the flames this time, but for you to read it.”

“That bastard!” Baralthol exploded suddenly, slamming his big fist on the table and causing the figures of the Dreiyards to topple. Lys flinched.

“Do not act like a child,” Sullian hissed at him as Bronyan carefully put the figures back up with his shaky, age-spotted hands. But Baralthol was raging.

“How dare he continue to threaten Wildeshell! How dare he demand things of our Lord Protector! The Voubren can take their big fleet and shove it up their-“

“My Lords,” Lysander interrupted him, clenching the letter in his fingers and slipping it beneath his furs, as if that would hide it from the eyes of the Masters, “It is best we all retire for the moment and cool our heads. We will on the morrow to continue the discussions but for now not much can be done except to write to King Ormond asking for aid.”

Grumbles sounded from the Masters but they bowed their heads. Lysander exited the room, relieved. To be in the presence of the fighting lords was exhausting. The door creaked open after Lys though, and when he turned around he found Baralthol starting after him down the hall.

“Barry,” Lys lifted his hand to stop his friend, “I have a headache. We will speak later,” he was pressing the letter to his chest, where his heart had been pounding for a while now. Baralthol’s sharp jaw covered in stubble clenched but he inclined his head, not wanting to disrespect his Protector’s wishes.

Lysander quickly hurried through the castle. It was growing late and cold, and when the man exhaled his breath turned into a cloud in front of his face. He clutched the furs tighter around himself and his step sped up subconsciously as he was eager to read this letter. Torches burned on the grey, bare walls of the corridors, but they offered little light and even less warmth. Lys passed by his solar and then hurried up the stairs, his footsteps echoing through the castle. Despite the vast amount of servants and lords that lived in Darmont, it was always eerily quiet. Lys felt like a hush had fallen on it the day his father died, or perhaps that was simply when his childhood ended, where the innocent laughter faded away and the hard work began.

Lys reached the third floor and passed two servants dusting the thick curtains in the tall windows, they bowed as he walked by. He acknowledged them with a tight smile that grew when he saw the door to his bedchambers. Finally, after a long day of dealing with the troubles plaguing Wildeshell he could relax. Or at least until the next big issue was brought to him by his frantic Masters.

Lysander’s room was as grey and cold as the rest of the castle, just like him. It was a large chamber, with tapestries hanging on the walls and fur rugs on the floor to try and act as a buffer zone between the Lord’s feet and the cold floor. Through the gothic windows Lys could see the sky darkening outside, and the stable-boys in the courtyard, leading horses back in after grazing on the fields.

A young, rosy-cheeked maid was by Lys’ fireplace, fanning the newly lit flames with a cloth to try to get them to burn quicker and warm the room faster. Lys cleared his throat awkwardly and she squeaked like a frightened little bird and stood quickly, curtsying.

“Apologies, my Lord,” she blurted, head hung and hands clasped in front of her, slender fingers still gripping the cloth, “I-I was told you would not be back yet-“

“It’s no trouble,” Lys told her with a tense laugh. He was never much use in talking with women, much preferring to drown himself in books or even to argue with his Masters.

“Um...,” the maid looked up at him shyly and offered him a little smile, “Would you like me to draw you a bath, my Lord?” There was a sparkle in her eye, a familiar one. Lys always considered himself quite a grey person; his eyes were grey, his hair a light brown that might have as well been grey, he preferred to wear muted colours and tended to be calm and collected. And yet he saw the way the women of the castle looked at him and whispered about him; at the age of twenty four Lys had still not had a woman, hadn’t even considered any prospective wives or mistresses. He had completely devoted himself to running the kingdom and making his mother proud. Lysander knew, mostly thanks to Baralthol, that the young maids all placed bets on which of them would drag him to bed first. Honestly one of the stable-boys had a higher chance of doing that...

Lys blushed, scolding himself for even thinking such a disgusting thought. He cleared his throat and stood up straighter, “No, not at the moment, thank you.”

The maid didn’t move, looking at him expectantly. Lys glanced at the door, then her, and her innocent smiled turned sultry. She unclasped her hands.

“You may leave now,” Lysander said, and immediately regretted his cold tone when the girl’s expression fell. She muttered a quiet apology and hurried out of the room, once again as meek as a mouse. Lys slumped when she closed the door behind her. Why was being Lord Protector so hard?

He headed to his bed and collapsed under the canopy, shoving off his shoes with his feet. The bed was close to the fire at least, so it wasn’t so horrendously cold. Lysander exhaled. God, how he hated this life.

He pulled the letter from beneath his fur and held it up in front of his face, arms outstretched. It looked like all the other ones before it, a golden envelope with a black seal. Lys bit his lower lip, and sat up, bringing the letter to his lap. He ran his fingers over the smooth envelope. Then he reached into his bedside table and pulled out a paper knife with which he pried open the seal.

The parchment tumbled into his lap. It was rough and rigged, unlike the smooth, white paper used in Beauralt. Rough around the edges, just like its owner. Lysander exhaled and tried to ignore his pounding heart as he unfolded the letter. The handwriting that looked back at him was painfully familiar. He began to read with bated breath.

_My Dear Lord Lysander,_

_I see you have failed to respond to my previous letter, and the letter before that, and I must say I am not surprise though a little let down. It would please me so to see thy gentle cursive on a page, won’t you write back to me? Actually I suppose now you must, seeing as my ships are in your bay. I do not want to invade your kingdom, my dear Lysander, I do not desire your grey shores and miserable weather, I only want you._

_If I do not have a response by the morrow, I will begin raiding. It hurts me that I must threaten you, whom I admire so much, but I am not going to leave without my husband, who I so implore you to become. I do not want to burn your villages and kill your people but I will, if you do not agree to marry me, or at least allow me to see your face, which I am sure is the most beautiful thing in the world._

_This letter, as all my letters before it, is one of love, my dear Lysander, not a threat._

_You have my heart,_

_Sef._

Lys exhaled shakily and his hands began to tremble, the paper fluttering a little in his grasp. He was just as overwhelmed with this letter as he had been with the first one, sent half a year ago. As much as he might pretend it wasn’t a threat, it was, or a warning at least. Lysander was running out of time, his people would be attacked and...

He looked at the writing on the page again and exhaled once more. Signed at the bottom was _Sef,_ such a casual way to end such a dangerous letter. It was as if a simple farm-boy had sent his secret lover a declaration of love that could not bloom between two men in Beauralt. But Lysander was no secret lover, he was the Lord Protector of Wildeshell and _everyone_ in Beauralt knew of these letters, or this _courting._ And ‘Sef’ was no simple farm-boy, he was Sef Ammon the King of Voubrenia, the single most powerful nation in the world, the single most powerful man in the world. And he wanted to marry Lysander.

Lys didn’t understand why. The tales spread by people about him were ones of his brilliant mind and great military strategies, which wasn’t on the top of the list for the most desirable traits. He was neither particularly handsome, or particularly brave, he was quite ordinary save for his title. And yet this man whom he never met before wanted him enough to invade a whole kingdom. Sef...Lys heard much about him; Archbishop Rochon up kept that he was a scoundrel drowning in sin because even though free love was allowed in many countries, Beauralt was not one of them and it condemned marriage and sexual relations between men, which King Sef was famous for. Baralthol called the Voubren a bastard. Sef was everything, apparently, strong and handsome and charismatic, and cold and cruel and barbarous. From his letters, Lysander gathered he was a romantic, and perhaps a little mentally unstable.

But Lysander couldn’t marry him. Not only would he be shunned by all of Beauralt, but he also couldn’t leave Wildeshell without a Protector, and besides he _didn’t_ want to marry this barbarous stranger that wanted to attack his people.

Lys stared at the letter. He knew he should throw it in the flames cheerfully dancing in the fireplace but he couldn’t bring himself to, just as he couldn’t bring himself to do with the previous letters. It seemed that every word Sef wrote was full of passion and emotion and a distorted kind of love, and Lys couldn’t bear to simply disregard it. He slid off his bed and knelt next to it, reaching beneath and pulling out a wooden chest decorated in gold that looked like it would be heavy, but wasn’t. When Lys opened it, rows of neatly arranged love letters from King Sef looked up at him; admissions of his guilt. Lysander swallowed and added a new one to the pile, telling himself that he was simply keeping them as evidence if Voubrenia truly invaded.

 _I need to see her._ Every time Lys received a letter he felt like a little confused boy again.

***

Estania Harkness sat at the window seat in her sitting room. It had begun to rain, droplets hitting the glass of the window. Beyond the water trickling down, Estania saw only the darkness of the gardens. She was knitting by candle-light, her gloved not as steady as she wanted them to be. The Lady was lost in thought, alternating between looking at the thread in her pale hands and the darkness behind the glass. She wondered if there was some beast outside, or perhaps the ghost of her dead husband. Maybe she could not see them, but they could see her, her spectral face illuminated by the candle. With the wind howling eerily through the stone castle it was easy to believe.

A hesitant, timid knock sounded on the door. Estania’s jaw clenched and her knitting needle slipped out of the loop. She cleared her throat and sat up straighter, resuming the place of her needle.

“Come in,” she called coolly.

The door opened and her son stepped in, “Good evening, mother,” he said, keeping his distance. Estania could not help but think he looked pitiful. He was a tall man, with broad shoulders, dressed in great furs. But he did not look like the Lord Protector – his eyes were hesitant, pale, his hands trembling from the cold in the room. He was nothing like his father, and for that Estania resented him.

“Lysander,” she looked back at her knitting, “What bring your here this evening?”

“I thought you might have dinner with me,” Lys said, “We haven’t eaten together for some time...”

“Well, no,” Estania said spitefully, “Not with you spending all of your hours in that Concilliar room.”

Lysander sighed, “Mother, I have a kingdom to run.”

“Mhmmm, so did your father, and yet he never neglected me,” she put down her needles and looked at her son coldly. If he was not her only child she would have someone strangle him in his sleep by now. He might have looked like his father in youth, but he had none of his strength and bravery, and he was leading Wildeshell into ruin. If only women could be Protectors... “Humour me then,” the woman said, “Are you here to ask advice for your little lover-boy?”

Lys winced, “Don’t call him that, mother. He is a dangerous and powerful King that is threatening invasion tomorrow if I don’t reply to him.”

“Then do it,” Estania snorted, “Write him a lovely love letter back.”

Lysander’s shoulders slumped, “Mother, please-“

“It’s what you want, isn’t it?” Estania hissed venomously, gripping her needles in her hands and wishing she could stab Lysander in the neck with them, “To go away with that vile creature and live in sin.”

“I do not!” Lysander exclaimed, flustered. She was the only one who could make him this flustered, “But he is threatening to burn villages and kill our people, mother.”

“Then let him,” Estania said sharply, “I’d rather those peasants die than my son be condemned by the Lord for laying with another man!”

“I-I...,” Lys’ voice faltered. He took a step towards the woman, eyes pleading, “I wouldn’t have to marry him right away. Perhaps if I agree to the engagement, then we can buy some time, stop him from-“

“Absolutely not,” Estania’s eyes narrowed and she stood up, tall and threatening. The cold beauty she had in her youth had passed, giving place to wrinkles that appeared from too much sneering, and hateful cold eyes, “I will burn down Wildeshell myself before I see you with that man,” she approached Lysander now, and he regretted moving close to her. She stood in front of him, his cold, cold mother who bore him no love, and grabbed his wrist, digging her long, claw-like fingernails into the soft skin there. He fought a wince, feeling like a child being reprimanded, “You think I don’t remember you and that stable-boy?” Estania seethed through her teeth, her grip tightening until she drew blood. Lysander was too scared to look away from her face, which was so twisted it barely resembled his mother anymore, “You think I don’t remember how he kissed you and you _let him?”_

Lysander ripped his arm away, taking a step back. _I am Lord Protector, I am Lord Protector,_ he told himself, but it was hard to remember that when his mother was looking at him with so much hate.

“We were children mother,” he said firmly, “It was only a game.”

The woman laughed humourlessly and turned to the window, “If you were a real man you would have those ships destroyed, you would go to war with Voubrenia, for my honour and your father’s. How disappointed- how _disgusted,_ he would be if he could see you now.”

Lysander should not have come for advice, it always ended the same way, “I will write to King Ormond and ask for more men,” he said hollowly. His mother didn’t reply or look at him. It was like the Concilliar room all over again, the day his father died. His mother had her back to Lys then too, and she never saw him since. His heart felt heavy, his chest too small to contain all the pain buried deep. Nights like these he simply yearned for the warm arms of his mother. “Won’t...won’t you come to dinner, mother?”

“I have already eaten,” Estania replied coldly, and sat down on the window seat, staring out at the darkness. After all, her arms had never been warm in the first place.

**2 days later**

**Tekosh Wall, the Baijin Patch, Tekoshi.**

**Mairi Empire.**

****

_...drip...drip...drip..._

Tomoya looked blankly at the droplets of water that pooled somewhere in the cell above him, only to drop methodically from the dark ceiling, making a noise that had once been irritating but over the last few weeks had become comforting.

_Drip. Drip. Drip. At least I’m still alive, I’ll be yearning for this sound when the noose is around my neck and my corpse hang limply over the side of the Wall._

Tomoya watched the droplets fall. Dawn was almost upon him and the water glimmered ever so slightly as it hit the floor. The cell was beginning to grey with daylight very slowly. Tomoya had always liked the Wall because it was the most south, because it was a little warmer here. He’d patrol the battlements and look out at the foggy ground disappearing beneath him. For miles and miles there was nothing but rocks and little streams that eventually gave way to the sand of the Golden Desert, the surrounded the Shairin Empire. That was enemy territory.

Tomoya wished he could see the ground from his cell but he was very, very high up and the tiny square window he had by his head showed nothing but mist, and although it was big enough for Tomoya to easily get through, he’d never make it down. Many times during his weeks of imprisonment he had shoved his head out of the window, when he still had hope that he’d somehow live through this. Without rope though, his body would tumble and fall and at the bottom his bones would all be crushed by the impact, and then he’d be another limp corpse that the Mairi have thrown over the side of their precious protective Wall. The window was just there to tease him with freedom he may never have, and there to allow the freezing hands of the night wind to slip in during the night and pull at the man’s long hair.

A cool breeze slipped inside Tomoya’s cell. His arse was going numb from sitting up all night but he couldn’t sleep, too much on his mind. It was an abstract thing, that the place that was once his home was now a prison. But he supposed it was his own fault for being here. Even if he hadn’t committed the crime he was on death row for, he had plenty sins on his account, sins the Goddess Taiyoo was now punishing him for. When he was executed, he would be forced into eternal night with all the demons that would torture and punish him, and Taiyoo’s warm sun rays would never touch him again.

Tomoya dropped his head limply into his arms. He had been a fool to think that he would get away with any of it. All that was left of his miserable, short life were these endless hours locked in this cell, where day and night merged together and he was forced to flinch each time his cell door opened, not knowing if it was his meal being brought to him, or the executioner coming to escort him to the top of the wall. Somehow the idea of his body hanging over the side from a rope, rotting and a feast for the crows, like some common criminal, repulsed Tomoya. He had once been a Royal Guardian, and yet he had fallen so low.

The worst part was that he knew it was his own fault. He had _everything_ he had wanted; a stable job, a room in a mansion, security, friends at the Wall. He had grown so much from that terrified child who had spent the night in the company of his parent’s corpses. And now, at the mere age of twenty three, he was going to perish and nobody would remember him as anything other than a traitor, adulterer, and murderer.

The painful metallic sound of the cell door grinding open jerked Tomoya out of his lethargy. He stood, dressed in the dirty rags he had been given when he first arrived, and watched the door open with a dry mouth. His heart threatened to fall out of his chest and escape through the window. The door opening always made him afraid, afraid that he hadn’t appreciated the wind enough, that he had cursed the uncomfortable wooden bench he slept on at night, that he hadn’t had enough gasps of air in his lungs, that it was all going to end so quickly...

A figure stepped in, and it wasn’t the guard that usually fed Tomoya, but a familiar figure with a long, drawn face, his black hair cut short at his chin.

“Miko?” Tomoya whispered, shoulders slumping. He hadn’t seen the other man in several years, ever since he went to work for the Kages, but before that, when they were being trained, Tomoya and Miko had been best friends. To see him now, older and in such circumstances, made Tomoya’s chest ache, “What are you doing here?” he asked breathlessly.

Tomoya had never been an emotional person, which was one of his strengths. Miko was the opposite.

“You fucking idiot,” the man whispered and clasped Tomoya’s hand, pulling him in for a quick embrace. Warmth seeped through the prisoner for it was the first time in maybe months that he had had human contact. But Miko was pulling away too quickly, “I can’t believe you’ve gotten yourself into this shit.”

“Stop swearing,” Tomoya whispered. Then he swallowed, “Are you here to take me to...,” his eyes flitted to the ceiling.

“No, idiot,” Miko scoffed. His dark eyes were darting all over the place, as if he was afraid that someone might walk in. There was no guard at the door and Miko shrugged off a sack off his back. He opened it at his feet and then threw clothes at Tomoya, “get dressed.”

“What?” the man didn’t understand.

“Tommy,” Miko gave him a tired look, “I won’t repeat myself. We don’t have time for this.”

He took the sack to the bench Tomoya slept on and the man decided for once to trust his disorganised, clumsy friend. He pulled off his stinking, soiled clothing and pulled on the clothes Miko gave him; a dark brown tunic and a pair of loose, mid-length pants the colour of the sun. There were sandals for his feet, thick leather gloves for his hands and a light cloak for his shoulders. This kind of clothing didn’t suit the foggy, rainy weather of Tekosh.

Tomoya whirled on Miko, and his heart dropped when he saw his friend perched precariously at the window, as always having little regard for his well-being. He was lowering a long, long coil of rope out of the window.

“No,” Tomoya said. Miko glanced at him, all mischievous smile and thick eyelashes.

“Shut up, Tommy.”

“Are you stupid?” Tomoya hissed, rushing over to his friend. He grasped his wrist and looked at him pointedly, “You’ll be hung for this.”

“No I won’t,” Miko rolled his eyes, “You’ve got plenty of friends in this place, they’ll never know which one of us it was. Besides,” his expression turned sincere, “The High Guardians don’t want to hang you, which is why you’re still here,” as he spoke he stood and carefully tied the rope through a chain hanging on the other wall, “everybody knows you didn’t do it, Tom. And you’re not going to die for it.”

“I...,” Tomoya still tried to wrap his head around what Miko was telling him. He watched helplessly as his best friend threw the thick coil of rope out of the window.

“It took me a while to gather supplies and things, so sorry for taking so long,” he turned to Tomoya with a grin and shoved the sack into his chest, “Everything’s there though, the other boys who stayed at the Wall helped, like Aki and Reno and those. S-So, um...,” Miko’s voice wobbled slightly, the only indication he was scared, “So you have to go.”

“Where?”

“I thought it was obvious,” the younger man gave Tomoya’s outfit a pointed look, “The Shairin Empire.”

“You’re not serious,” Tomoya whispered, “We’re at _war_ with them.”

Miko shrugged, “Nobody’s going to stop a lone traveller. Now come on,” he patted Tomoya on the shoulder, “it’s a long way down. I’ll stay here and make sure nobody cuts the rope or anything rude like that. When you get to the bottom tug twice and I’ll untie it and so there won’t be evidence and-“

Tomoya pulled the man into his arms, squeezing tightly. He felt his friend sag against him and then Miko let out a strained laugh, patting Tomoya heartily on the back. He was smaller than Tomoya, lanky and awkward, he had stayed at the Wall because nobody wanted to employ him and now he was proving to the be the bravest of all the Guardians.

“Thank you,” Tomoya whispered, still in shock. Miko squeezed him back quickly.

“Go,” he whispered. Tomoya pulled away and looked at him, and Miko looked as if he had just come to wake Tomoya up for breakfast. His stance was relaxed, a smile on his lips. The crushing weight of the sacrifice he could be making for Tomoya almost crashed the man in that moment.

“Come with me,” he blurted.

“Don’t be stupid,” Miko said, “Two tugs, remember?”

Tomoya nodded, heart heavy. He climbed onto the bench he had slept on uncomfortably for so many nights and gripped the rope in his gloved hands. When he climbed onto the sill and looked down his heart jumped to his throat and he felt a wave of nausea break over him. How many times had he looked into the milky whiteness below him and not felt anything? And yet now, in the dim light of dawn he could see the rope disappearing into the fog below. How far was it till the ground? The thought of sliding down into the unknown was a terrifying one. _But I will be free._

“I’m not magic, you know,” Miko said abruptly and Tomoya looked up. His friend was hovering by the wall, still smiling, “I can’t make time stop for you, I can just buy you more, but I’m out of money.”

Tomoya nodded, “G-Good bye,” his throat was tight, and he knew he could never return him.

“Goodbye, brother,” Miko replied.

Gripping the rope tightly, Tomoya stepped off the ledge.

His stomach somersaulted as he hung free, enveloped by the cold air. He was high up and the wind was rough, tugging violently at his hair and pulling strands out of Tomoya’s ponytail. His fingers were clenched so tightly around the rope he was scared his bones would break and he was too afraid to look down. _You’ve trained for situations like this,_ Tomoya reminded himself. He looked at the window one last time, but couldn’t see upwards from the ledge. With a deep breath and gathering all his courage, Tomoya lowered himself down.

He began to abseil, using his feet to push himself off the stones of the Tekoshi Wall, the rope sliding through his gloves. Soon enough he was enveloped in the white of the fog, so impenetrable he almost couldn’t see the Wall itself. Silence consumed him, his breathing the only sound and it was as if he was the last human being on earth, just him, the rope and the Wall.

He went for what felt like ages. The Wall was five-hundred feet but the minutes dragged on. Tomoya could barely see or hear anything, and he was afraid he was lowering himself into the eternal night, that demons would reach up from below to grasp at his feet. When he finally dared to look down all he saw was more fog. His heart pounded the whole time, his cheeks burned from the icy air that stabbed at his exposed skin, his arms ached from the effort of keeping his body up. Occasionally he’d slip, or miscalculate and slam up painfully against the wall. His rucksack bounced against his back. The sandals weren’t great shoes for this activity, and occasionally Tommy would scramble and scrape his lower legs against the wall. At some point he stopped thinking altogether and it became a monotonous task of lowering himself.

_Rope slide. Push off. Rope slide. Push off. Stop. Adjust rucksack. Rope slide. Push off..._

_...drip...drip...drip..._

The ground came from nowhere – one moment Tomoya was mid air and the next his feet were slamming painfully against rocks. He hissed in pain and stumbled, releasing the rope and falling down. For a second he was disorientated, looking up at the white, the mist around his face preventing him from seeing much. The rope dangled above his head, swinging in the morning breeze.

 _I made it._ Tomoya would have laughed in relief if his stomach wasn’t all in knots. He looked around frantically, terrified that Guardians would come running out of nowhere, ready to arrest him. But no, he was all alone in the fog.

Swallowing, Tomoya reached for the rope and tugged twice. He stepped back and seconds later he watched as the rope came coiling from the heavens, curling in on itself as Miko released it above. Tomoya contemplated taking it with him but he soon realised it would never fit, it was too long. When the last part landed on the ground, a pain squeezed Tomoya’s body. His last contact with Miko, and his brothers, on the Wall had been severed. He’d never see them again.

The man took a deep breath. He was a lone fugitive now, and he had to start moving. Somewhere a crown cawed. Tomoya shivered in the cold morning air. The clothes Miko had provided might have been good for the desert farther along, but they were little use to Tomoya now.

The man spared the Wall, or at least the little portion of it he could see, one last look. At least the fog would shield him.

Without a second thought he set off straight, hoping he was going in the vague direction of the Shairin Empire. If not, he would reach the sea. Suddenly endless possibilities opened up in front of him. For now it was just him and the rocky grey ground that emerged from the fog with every step, but soon...soon he could join the Dreiyards far North and become a raider...but no, it was too cold for him there. Perhaps he could become a pirate then, sailing as far as the Bay of Wild Bears. Maybe he could gather a fortune in Beauralt and become a Lord. Maybe-

His feet hit something and the man stumbled, almost falling and letting out a muffled yelp that resonated and echoed and seemed all too loud for him. He regained his balance, froze, and held his breath, waiting for the arrows to start raining down at him from above, or for the sound of hundreds of unified feet rushing towards him.

But there was just silence. Relieved, Tomoya looked down at what he tripped over.

A socket-less, dried corpse stared up at him. Bile rose in Tomoya’s throat; he had seen bodies before, the Empty Land, the space between the two Empires, was littered with them...but he hadn’t expected to find one so soon. The corpse was a woman, her long black hair spread about her. Her eyes and part of her nose had been pecked out by birds, and by the unnatural way she was laying it was clear she had been thrown off the wall and her spine been snapped like a chicken bone. Tomoya looked away, disgusted. The image of his parents dead bodies flashed in his mind. He hadn’t thought about them in years.

The man took a deep breath, refusing to be sick. The body was simply a reminder that Tomoya had a hard and perilous journey ahead of him, and that the truly dangerous part had just begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thankyou so much for the kudos and comments guys xxxxx hope ya enjoy this chapter


	4. The Fire Dancers

**Late Autumn 212CE. (2 days later)**

**Horness, Crasbury, Wildeshell.**

**Kingdom of Beauralt.**

****

Wildeshell and Voubrenia have officially been at war for four days. It was bizarre, since the rest of Beauralt was refusing to get involved, and the Voubren were yet to make a move. A letter from King Ormond had come a day before, explaining that although Beauralt was troubled by this new invasion they simply did not have the manpower to deal with it.

Wildeshell was alone, isolated and forsaken by its ruler. But instead of facing the threat head-on, Lys was here, in Horness, dealing with a different threat that his Masters deemed more pressing.

Aleix, Lysander’s horse, crested the hill that he and his small garrison had been galloping up, and Lysander saw the sea opened out in front of him like a grey blanket. A gust of salty air brushed over his face and caressed his hair. In the summer when the sun was shining it was beautiful here, the sea all sapphire and silver, but now it looked miserable with choppy, frothy waves crashing against the rocky beach. Directly in front of Lys was a gentle slope of green grass shifting wildly in the wind and leading to the small village of Horness that was nestled below them, between two small hills, almost by the shore itself.

It was going up in smoke. Thick clouds of chalky grey billowed up to the equally steely autumn sky and even from the distance Lysander could see the huts that had been set alight, and watched their charred remains with a clenched jaw. The villagers, those who had survived the merciless Dreiyard attack, were amassed behind the village, a clump of them, standing still and watching their home and all of their belongings smoke away. Lysander had seen villages raided by Dreiyards before, but this one was particularly ruthless – the Dreiyards left nothing, even the fields around the village were burnt

“My Lord,” Baralthol was at his side, as he always was in these matters. His eyes were angry, “Let’s go.”

Lysander nodded, and he and his thirty men spilled over the hill and sped down towards the villagers. The wind was in Lysander’s face, cold and biting, but the Lord was too concerned about the situation to properly notice the freezing temperatures. As he got closer to the villagers he had Aleix slow down to the trot. It broke his heart when he saw the pale, scared faces of his people – children were wailing and clutching their mother’s skirts, while people lamented the death of their neighbours and family members, or sat on the ground and looked around in shock, not really seeing anything.

“Lord!” someone called when Lysander stopped his horse and dismounted. The villagers surged forward, hope gracing their face. Suddenly there were hands grasping at Lys’ shoulders and arms and cloak, “Lord!” the people cried, “Lord Protector!”

“Quiet!” Baralthol barked, shoving the people back with some of his men, “Everyone stand back.”

“Baralthol,” Lysander gave his friend a pointed look, “The people are scared, there is no need to make the situation worse.” He handed the reigns of Aleix to a squire and approached the villagers, “Please, good people, tell me what happened here.”

A middle aged man with soot on his face and a thick moustache stepped forward, “My Lord,” he bowed, thick brows strained, “They ‘ave been lurking about like snakes ever since yesterday.”

“The Dreiyards?” Lys asked.

“Aye, Sire,” the man nodded, “taunting us, they was, on their big ships just at the horizon. We sent for you, with our fastest rider on ‘er best horse.”

Lysander nodded, “Yes, I came as soon as I could,” he glanced at the destroyed remains of the village – roofs had collapsed and there were pieces of wood jutting out towards the sky like broken bones. The air tasted like ash, “My friend, I am afraid I have come too late.”

“We knew they was coming,” the man continued gruffly and some of the other men muttered their agreements, “they ‘av sacked Farnore, then Astra, then we’s got word from Elyn that they was under siege yesterday. Those damned Northmen,” he spat at the ground and around him a dozen people did the same. Lysander almost smiled; it was good that the attack hadn’t depleted the characters of the Beaus.

“Have they returned North?” Baralthol questioned. The villager looked at him sideways.

“Aye, left as soon as ‘ey was done with the pillaging and killing. Burned our fields and our crops, rained flaming arrows down on us, Lords. We have no means of surviving the winter.”

“My friends,” Lysander said calmly, making calculations in his head, “you will not be left to starve,” he turned to one of the men with him, “Korin, take these good people with you back to Crasbury. Find them a place to sleep for the night and ensure they are fed.”

“Oh God is good!” a woman burst while another threw herself at Lysander’s feet and started kissing his boots. Bashfully Lys pulled her up.

“Here, here,” he laughed awkwardly, “Go with my men.”

“You are a good Lord Protector,” someone shouted and the others echoed him. Lysander offered them a tense smile and moved aside to let them through. He didn’t let on how worried he was – Wildeshell didn’t have a lot of resources, and if these Dreiyard attacks continued Crasbury would become overcrowded, and then the people wouldn’t be so thankful. It was the perfect recipe for a rebellion, and Lys didn’t feel like seeing his head on a spike because King Ormond was too busy feasting and drinking back in Briarwhyte.

“Do you want to see the village?” Baralthol asked, appearing at Lysander’s side. The Lord exhaled – he knew there was no point; they were unlikely to find anything of use, especially since they knew exactly who had carried out the attack. Still, Lys wanted to get away for a little while and look at the sea more closely before he had to return to castle business.

“Yes,” he agreed, “let’s go.”

He and Baralthol climbed onto their horses and went off, leaving the rest of the men to escort the villagers the long, four hour journey back to the capital.

When Lys and Baralthol neared the village their eyes started watering from the sulphur in the air. It became harder to breathe, with the air chalky and rough, scratching at the back of their throats. Even thought the fires had been set hours ago, some were still burning. By the time the two men reached the first destroyed houses they had to have handkerchiefs pressed over their mouths to prevent themselves from breathing in ash. All Lys saw were charred foundations of homes, burnt bodies and bones strewn on the pathways, evil gold glimmers of fire, and a whole tone of smoke.

“Let’s go,” Lysander shouted through his handkerchief, “No point staying here and suffocating.”

Baralthol didn’t have to be told twice, coughing. The two reeled their spooked horses away from the dead village and towards the water. When they reached the stony beach the breeze cleared the air some, and the men could breathe normally again. Close up the sea appeared even more grey and sad than before, but after the smoke Lys enjoyed the fresh air in his lungs.

He climbed off his horse and began to walk away before Baralthol could catch up and begin to pester him with strategies to stop the Dreiyards. Right now Lys didn’t have the strength to think about that. He pulled his furs tighter around himself to stop the invading wind from getting in and headed to the water. Thankfully, Baralthol didn’t follow him, instead standing by the horses and watching him.

Lys exhaled when he reached the water line. He could hear seagulls squawking nearby, and the soft _shhhhhh_ of the waves breaking at his feet. It was calm and peaceful. It didn’t feel like Wildeshell was at war. Ultimately, Lys’ Masters had persuaded him to ignore King Sef’s ‘threat,’ and days had passed without any retaliation. Maybe Sef would give up after all...

Lysander rubbed the bridge of his nose. There were so many issues in Wildeshell. Firstly, there was the war with the Shairin Empire that King Ormond had begun selfishly, supported by the Church of Ilyndo, in an attempt to convert the Shairins from their ‘sinful’ ways. Then there were the never-ending Dreiyard raiding, though that was growing less frequent as winter approached. But that wasn’t all; the witches in the Wild Lands of Briarwhyte were becoming braver, venturing out into Beauralt and making dark prophecies and kidnapping children for sacrifice, scaring the people. Thankfully the Wild Lands were far away from Wildeshell. The whole kingdom was on edge, and so was Lysander. And he now had Voubrenia to add to his list of worries. It felt like he hadn’t slept in years.

Not caring how un-Lord-like he appeared, the man sat down on the rocks, folding his fur beneath himself. He pulled his legs to his chest and rested his chin on his knees, gloomily looking out at the sea. It was calm and quiet. Lysander closed his eyes. Despite the cold, he wished he could have just stayed on this beach forever.

A freezing, howling wind picked up suddenly, making Lys snap his eyes open.

His heart skipped a beat in his chest and his whole body froze, for there, on the horizon, were ships. Not the dingy little Dreiyard ships. No, these were huge, towering, appearing menacingly through the mist, sails flickering golden. _How can I only see them now?_ Nausea rose in Lysander’s gut and he scrambled to his feet, scraping his palms on the sharp pebbles. The Voubren were here. His heart pounded and for a moment all he could do was watch the ships approach, eerie and terrifying and seemingly never-ending. Ship behind ship, behind ship. Lys turned and clumsily ran up the rocks to Baralthol who was stroking his horse’s mane.

“ _Barry!”_

“What?” the Master asked, eyes wide as he saw Lys’ expression, hand frozen against the horse.

“We were wrong,” Lys gasped, a little out of breath and feeling he might fall unconscious. Baralthol’s brows furrowed.

“About what?”

“Think!” Lysander snapped, because he himself was angry that he hadn’t realised it before. He hauled himself up onto Aleix, “That man from the village said the Dreiyards came on big ships!”

Baralthol looked puzzled, “Yes...and?”

“The Dreiyards don’t _have_ big ships!” Lysander shouted, startling his friend, “They have the small slick ones to escape fast! Don’t you see?!” he demanded, but by the confusion in Baralthol’s eyes he could see that the man didn’t. Lysander took a deep breath, regaining his composure. Now was not the time to panic, “If the Dreiyards were in Elyn yesterday how would they get here so fast? Since when do they ‘lurk’ about at night or use fire-arrows?”

Realisation dawned on Baralthol and his eyes snapped to the horizon where the Voubren ships were becoming more and more visible, “ _Fuck,”_ he swore, hand automatically grabbing the pommel of his sword, “Those stupid, blind villagers, they were attacked by Voubren, not Dreiyards!”

“King Sef has made his move,” Lysander said feverishly. _It’s my fault, it’s my fault._ “We need to return to Darmont, and I need to write a letter to him before he destroys another village.”

**2 days later**

**Din-Moher Harem, Antasa, Hadia.**

**The Shairin Empire.**

****

“Seraf?” Ari asked, voice as dreamy and innocent as always. He held the blade to his brother’s jaw, as afternoon sunlight streamed in through the window and made the white, almost transparent curtains flutter. The Leahil’s eyes were closed as he leaned back in the chair, “Do you love Kater?”

Seraf’s eyes fluttered open and he looked up into his little brother’s identical dark brown ones. When he smiled the corners of his eyes crinkled. Ari smiled back, he always smiled back. He steadily dragged the blade over Seraf’s skin, creating a clean, sharp edge to his beard. The boy might have been nineteen summers old but many often saw him as a child due to his nature. And yet his hands were steady, and Seraf trusted him to shave him.

“Yes,” the Leahil admitted, “I love her very much.”

Omarian pouted and put the blade down, dabbing at his brother’s face with a damp towel. Seraf admired his brother’s work in the mirror and smiled appreciatively; the boy had done a good job, shaving down Seraf’s slightly unruly black beard into something that looked presentable and ready for the wedding that evening. Then Seraf looked up and his eyes met Ari’s. The boy looked upset.

“What is it?” the Leahil stood up and looked down at his little brother. Their bodies were completely different; Seraf was strong, broad and tall, and Ari was the opposite, small and willowy, with something feminine about his thick eyelashes and shoulder-length wavy hair.

“I just...,” the boy bit at his plump bottom lip in thought, “You married Burha, and then you were unhappy. And then you married Eryel, and you were unhappy too...I just want you to be happy this time.”

Seraf chuckled softly under his breath and pulled Ari into a big bear hug. The Prince had the biggest heart out of anyone Seraf had ever met. He held his little brother close until Ari started giggling. Seraf just hugged him harder. He knew this all was hard on Ari, who was empathetic to a fault. Seraf just wished there was a way for him to protect his innocent brother from all the cruel, harsh things in the world. But alas, it was impossible. Seraf released the smaller boy in favour of putting his hands on his slim shoulders.

“I married Eryel for Burha,” Seraf said, “You know that.”

Ari slumped and looked down, “I know. But if Kater isn’t the one then you will have to marry again, to find someone for her, and then marry again, and you will end up having a hundred spouses.”

Seraf laughed heartily and ruffled Arian’s hair, “Don’t worry, little brother. I love Kater, and I would never let anyone else have her.” His expression softened and Ari smiled, relaxing, “She’s the one for me, Ari.”

“I’m glad.”

“Me too, Arian. I know our culture encourages us to have multiple wives and husbands but if you ask me marrying just one person is enough, if it’s someone you love.”

The younger boy’s face lit up brilliantly and his big eyes sparkled, “I know!” he beamed, “I’m going to marry Gus, because I love him!”

Seraf’s heart clenched and it was as is an invisible hand was clutching his throat. _He knows. I must remind him...,_ but Seraf hated reminding Ari, because the boy would always look so crestfallen after. Tonight Seraf wanted him to be happy. He’d remind him again tomorrow. The man forced a smile and let go of his brother.

“I have to get dressed,” he said, “Why don’t you find Gus, eh? You haven’t bathed today, I can smell you from here.”

Arian stuck his tongue out playfully but the prospect of going to Gus was too much for him and in moments he was skipping to the door.

The corridors of the Harem were bustling with people; merchants carrying fabrics, servant girls running around frantically with pitchers of spiced wine, royal guests lazing about and looking out of windows. The celebrations were mere hours away. Ari didn’t pay any mind to the people though, ducking under arms and ignoring angry shouts of his name, as wild and carefree as he always was. It had been another hot summer day but now, as sunset approached the inside of the harem was beginning to cool down. Ari was sad to see the sun go, but he would happily welcome the moon when it appeared.

The boy ran down the stairs, feet bare as always. Everyone, including Seraf, his mother and Gus, had pestered Ari over and over about wearing slippers, but the boy hated them, felt too restricted with them on his feet. Like this he could feel the warmth of the earth through his soles, or the coolness of the marble floors in his toes. He also enjoyed the sound his skin made as it slapped against the stairs – it brought a smile to his face.

The boy sprinted down the second floor and around the grand fountain showing a stag, the Shairin animal, spraying water out of its open jaws. It stood right beside the balcony that had a view all the way down to the second courtyard. On this floor there were even more people and Ari found himself barrelling straight into a man with a long black, braided beard and a bright crimson turban, who was carrying a stack of pretty rolled up fabrics. Naturally the fabrics went spilling anywhere, but it did little to slow Ari down, he barely even noticed, skipping over them.

“Hey boy!” the merchant shouted after him, but Ari ignored him like he ignored everyone else. He saw the stairwell leading down to the first floor and grinned, but before he could shoot down it a hand came from nowhere and grasped his arm, jerking him backwards.

“Hey, hey!” a cheerful voice called as Ari found himself tumbling backwards into someone’s arms. Something soft and warm pressed against his back and willowy arms closed around him, “Where are you running off to, little Prince?”

Ari recognised her by the smell alone; she smelled like the forest, and saffron, and incense. He grinned and leaned easily against the woman holding him.

“I’m going to find Gus.”

Eryel Abazza turned Arian around, so they were face to face. They were the same height, and both of them were grinning. Eryel was Seraf’s second wife, and she was half Shairin, half Beau. Her skin was paler than everybody else’s in the Harem, but her hair was inky-black, falling to her waist in a straight sheet. A fringe swept just above her amused, mischievous chocolate eyes.

“I’ll tell you where he is,” Eryel said with a wink. Arian perked up.

“You will?” he asked excitedly.

“Yes,” Eryel innocently took her brother-in-law’s hand and intertwined their fingers, “Buuuut...,” she drawled, “only if you come see Kater in her dress.”

She didn’t give Ari a chance to answer before she dragged him away from the staircase and towards the part of the floor that was taken up by the wives’ apartments. Even if Ari tried to struggle it would be useless – Eryel had a lot of strength in her thin body, and once she was determined to do something it was very hard to dissuade her. However Ari liked her very much, and so he allowed her to pull him along. They were like two children, giggling and whispering to each other as they weaved through the mass of people in the Harem, ignoring the irritated looks they got.

When they entered the apartment of the wives, Ari was mesmerised.

It was a room he was in often, and one of his favourites in the Harem. It was huge, with several lofty windows and balconies looking out on the royal gardens behind the building. There were crimson velvet sofas scattered about, and large white vases full of flowers, with expensive golden carpets on the floor. From the ceiling hung transparent, shimmering curtains that reached the floor and snaked around each other to create an ethereal, secretive effect. Arian and Gus used to duck beneath them as children and chase each other around. The wives all shared one bed, which was as immense as the room itself, piled high with pillows and with a gold and red canopy overhanging it.

In the centre of the room stood Kater, already in her wedding dress. She was the mesmerizing thing. A beautiful girl with her skin as dark as the Shairin but a cooler tone. She was from the mysterious, wild lands of Atavya. Brought to the Empire as a slave she became a servant in the Harem and had fallen in love with Seraf, and he reciprocated her feelings. She looked like a true Leahila now, dressed in a golden dress that hugged all of her curves. There was a pellucid shawl about her shoulders, and carmine jewels glimmered at her throat. The bottom part of her face was covered with a shawl too, so Seraf didn’t kiss her prematurely, and her green eyes peeked up above it shyly, coloured with black cohl. On the table behind her rested a headdress made of white and amber flowers that would be set upon her chestnut head, but for now filled the room with a sweet scent.

At Kater’s side was Burha, looking mildly annoyed as always and not yet dressed for the ceremony, instead having her caramel locks pinned back and wearing loose pants.

“Stand still,” she grumbled to Kater, trying to pin her veil in place.

“Ari!” the bride-to-be seemed relieved to see her future brother-in-law. Without thinking she ripped herself from Burha’s grip, making the first wife groan in annoyance and spill pins all over the floor. Kater elegantly ran to Arian and grasped his hands in hers as Eryel knelt by Burha to help her clean up, “Oh how is he, Ari?” Kater fretted, eyebrows furrowed, “Is he nervous?”

Ari blinked, “Who?”

Kater laughed sweetly, “Seraf, silly.”

“Oh!” Arian smiled, “He seems fine. I shaved his beard really well, I think you’ll like it. _I_ am worried though,” he admitted, “I don’t want him to find a fourth wife, Kattie.”

“Oh, you silly boy,” Kater gushed with emotion and pulled the boy into a hug, much like Seraf had done. She kissed Ari’s head, “Seraf and I will be together forever.”

Arian looked over her shoulder at the two other wives who were looking at them fondly, hands full of pins, “Like Eryel and Burha will be together forever?” Ari asked.

“Exactly,” Kater kissed the top of his head again and exhaled, stepping back and spreading her arms out, “How do I look?”

“ _Oh,”_ Ari melted, “Oh, you look mesmerizing, Kattie. You look like a goddess who had come down from the sun, dressed in the warmest sunrays. I wish I could wear your dress when I get married!”

“You are the sweetest boy, Ari,” Kater caressed his cheek.

“Alright, alright,” Burha grumbled, “We’re not done dressing you Kat, and if Eryel,” she gave the other woman a pointed look, “would stop getting distracted then _maybe_ we could have the bride ready by next month.”

Eryel snorted and affectionately pinched Burha’s hip, “Off you go then, Ari, go find your lover-boy, he was practicing in the first courtyard last I saw him.”

“Don’t call him that,” Burha hissed, but Ari didn’t hear, remembering suddenly why he was running in the first place. A burst of warmth and happiness erupted in his chest and he grinned brightly before taking off again, barely giving the wives a second glance. Eryel and Kater exchanged fond looks but Burha shook her head, “This is all going to end in heartbreak. You two shouldn’t encourage this,” she glared at the two women.

“Let him live, Burha,” Eryel rolled her eyes, “He’s still young, he doesn’t have to worry about all _that_ until the last moment.”

Arian ran excitedly through the Harem, a little out of breath and sweating slightly since it was still quite warm. Staircases were placed haphazardly around the building so he had to jog through hallways to get to them. He took the stairs by the Grand Baths and came out on the first floor by the small library. By his mother’s apartments he couldn’t help but lean over the balustrade that encased the balcony through which you could look all the way down to the first courtyard. It was bustling with people with servants running up and down cellar stairs, carrying cases of wine and boxes of fruit. The courtyard itself was still in the process of being decorated, with shimmering gold and crimson cloth hung from the balconies, and decorated in garlands of exotic flowers. And there, in the corner, was Gus. Arian almost squealed. He hadn’t seen his friend since breakfast since he was the groom’s brother, and so had to help him with personal preparations. For a moment the boy watched the Odelian swinging his sword and contemplated shouting down to him but he was too far up and just then the musicians decided to start practicing, so loud, fast-paced, brassy music filled the Harem.

Sweat dripped down Augustus’ naked back as he hacked at the dummy in front of him with a wooden sword. He drowned out the world around him and the ruckus of the wedding preparations, focusing instead on the ache in his biceps as he swung his weapon. It was just him and the dummy, like it would be on the battlefield. The Odelian’s brows were furrowed in concentration, his sandaled feet planted firmly on the ground. He was wearing only a pair of brown leggings, but he was boiling hot anyway, the rays of the setting sun licking at his muscled back. The dummy wasn’t looking too good, with sand oozing out of the holes Gus had poked in it. The man raised the sword to deliver another blow, when suddenly a weight barrelled into his back. He yelped and stumbled forward, and shoved the blunt sword into the dummy - the combined weight of two people forced the weapon deep into the material, and sand spilled everywhere.

“Oi!” Augustus yelled, whirling around to see who the hell was trying to get stabbed. But it was just Ari, standing in front of him, all flushed and smiling brilliantly. Gus’ shoulders slumped and the irritation went out of him, “Idiot,” he flicked Ari’s dark forehead, “don’t scare me like that, you could have gotten hurt.” Gus said it half-heartedly, since he could never get properly angry at Ari, even when they were children.

“Sorry,” Arian said breathlessly. His curls were stuck to his forehead and red cheeks.

“Have you been running?”

The Prince nodded excitedly, “I saw Kater’s wedding dress! It’s so pretty, Gus,” he grabbed the ward’s calloused hands in his small, delicate ones and squeezed, “Can I wear a pretty dress on our wedding day?” he asked breathlessly. Gus’ stomach plummeted to the ground and he forced a pained smile. Gods, the last few days have been hard, with Seraf’s wedding and all, like constant agonizing reminders.

“You should focus on studying,” Gus reprimanded his friend, ruffling his hair affectionately. Ari giggled, “And stop walking with your head in the clouds, thinking about dresses and everything...,” Gus’ hand slowed in Ari’s hair and he tucked one of the boy’s dark waves behind his ear. Arian smiled up at him sweetly and Gus snatched his hand back, blushing.

Arian turned his head to the side ever so slightly, his eyes trained on Gus’ naked upper-half that was shining with sweat. Without thinking he reached out and brushed his fingers gently over Augustus’ muscled abdomen. Heat exploded in the Odelian and he quickly grabbed the Prince’s wrist and pulled it away, looking around to ensure nobody had noticed.

“Ari,” he hissed quietly, “I told you that it’s inappropriate for you to-“

“Ari! Gus!” the shout made both the boy’s look up, Gus still holding Ari’s wrist. Across the courtyard, standing in one of the arches leading off into the Harem, was Therian Abazza, Seraf’s and Gus’ mother. She was dressed in gorgeous verdant garments, with her long grey-streaked dark hair braided to her waist and encrusted with emeralds. She was looking at the boys disapprovingly, “The wedding begins at sun-down and you two aren’t even bathed yet!” she reprimanded them, as if they were still children.

“Sorry, Leahila!” Gus apologised, bowing quickly.

“Sorry mama!” Ari called back innocently.

“The bath is drawn!” Therian gestured pointedly at the arch leading off the bathing rooms. Ari grinned at her and she shook her head fondly and watched as her son grasped one of Gus’ hands in two of his own and pulled him along. They disappeared in the arch and Therian exhaled, placing a hand on her stomach. She was getting old, and she wouldn’t be around forever to take care of her baby boy. She hoped Gus would be, though with the new arrangements Therian wasn’t sure if Gus would be able to stand to remain in the Harem. With Seraf married again and Gus leaving, Ari would have nobody. That thought pained her.

“Do you have your clothes ready, Ari?” Gus pestered his best friend as he pushed the boy’s small body up the stairs, trying to hurry him up. The light falling in through the glass-less windows was beginning to take on an amber tint and Gus didn’t want to be late to the celebrations.

“Yes,” Ari rolled his eyes, “The servants laid them out for me on the bed in the morning! Ouch! Don’t poke my spine, Gus, it hurts!”

“Hurry up then, you little runt or I’ll catch you,” Augustus warned, digging his finger into the small of Ari’s back.

“No!” the boy squealed, and then he was racing up the stairs. Gus couldn’t hold back a laugh at how gullible his friend was. The ward let him keep the lead as they raced through the first floor, irritating all the decorators who shouted obscenities after them as the boys ducked under ladders and wreathes of flowers. However the moment the two made it up to the third floor, Gus easily caught up with the smaller boy.

Arian screamed when Augustus’ arms came up from behind him, and he found himself captured in Gus’ strong arms, feet pulled off the floor for a second. He protested and squirmed, trying to get away as Gus tickled him mercilessly. Their laughter echoed through the Harem, and they missed the fond, slightly sad way that the servants looked at them. They appeared so happy together.

Eventually the boys spilled into the Grand Baths, out of breath and fighting giggles. The room was as royal as the rest of the Harem, with golden pillars supporting the ceiling and marble baths scattered about. There were a few servants by one of them, filling it up with steaming hot water and scented salts. When they saw Gus and Arian they bowed.

“Lord,” they said, “Prince. The bath is ready.”

“Thankyou!” Arian said happily, and began to strip without a care in the world. Gus sighed, but knew there was no point telling the Prince off. He had a mind of his own and little care for manners. His head was filled with too many dreams and wonders to care about mundane things such as disrobing with dignity. The boy simply pulled his tunic over his head and discarded it aside before wriggling out of his trousers and underwear simultaneously, dropping everything on the ground.

The servants picked up his dirty clothing as the happy boy climbed into the bath, sighing in content when he submerged his body in the warm water. Gus undressed more carefully, handing his clothing to the servants and thanking them. He always felt a little awkward being waited on, even after all these years. He was no Prince after all, just the younger son of a Lord from across the sea.

When the servants left, Gus climbed into the bath with Arian. The tub was big enough for both of them to sit in comfortably, and the water was milky with all the fragrant soaps and salts the servants had added to the water, so it was impossible to see anything beneath it. They had always bathed together as children, and didn’t see a reason to stop. It was always more fun to be together. To Gus’ right was a window with frosted, coloured glass. If Gus pressed his face to it he’d be able to see the front of the Harem.

Ari was completely in his element. He had a soft, fluffy white towel folded underneath his head and he leaned back against it as he relaxed in the water, eyes closed. Gus took the opportunity to look at him. Arian was only nineteen summers old but sometimes he looked much younger, like right now. His long, dark hair was damp from the steam curling in the air, and spread out on the towel behind him, some wavy strands sticking to his face and forehead. His dark skin was flushed from the heat of the water, and his thick eyebrows were relaxed. Gus’ grey eyes danced over Ari’s thick dip, the straight line of his nose, the soft curve of his jaw, his slender neck and gentle curve of his shoulders, down his thin chest and dusky nipples, all the way down to the water. Then Gus finally unglued his eyes and looked at the window, blushing with guilt. Ari was innocent, and his best friend, and Gus had no right to look at him in _that_ way.

“I like baths,” Ari mumbled, eyes still closed. He could feel the warmth seeping in through his skin and relaxing his muscles.

“I know,” Gus replied absent-mindedly, running his thumb over his bottom lip as he peered out of the window. The front yard was full of people, horses and camels. The heat was making both of the boys sluggish and sleepy.

Ari finally cracked his eyes open, looking at Gus. As always his chest felt tight and hot just from gazing at the other boy.

“Can you dance with me later?” he asked. Gus looked at him with soft eyes.

“Yes, of course,” he replied, “But you have to dance with other people too, Ari. You’re a Prince, plenty of pretty boys and girls want to spin you around.”

Ari pouted, “I don’t want to dance with them,” he sank further down into the water, “I only want to dance with you.”

Gus’ hands itched to reach out and grab him, and pull him close and tell him that he didn’t want to dance with anyone else either. The boy shoved his treacherous hands under the water.

“You’ll dance with Burha, and Kattie, and Eryel, and Seraf though, right?” Gus questioned. Ari perked up.

“Yes, of course! I love dancing with them! And I will dance with mama too.”

He ducked under the water for a moment and then came back up, dripping wet and laughing. _Fuck,_ Gus’ hands clenched into fists under the water and his heart beat wildly. _Calm down, calm down..._

“I love weddings,” Ari decided, lifting up his palm that was filled with water and watching curiously as it dribbled over his fingers and wrist, “I can’t wait for our one.”

For a moment Gus was in so much pain he had to close his eyes. When did reality become so painful?

“Ari,” he said, forcing his voice to remain steady.

“Hmmm?”

“We’re not getting married,” Gus opened his eyes. Arian didn’t even look at him, scooping up another handful of water.

“Okay,” he said, not registering what everyone had been telling him for weeks. _Gods, I want to marry you too._ Gus swallowed.

“Omarian,” he said carefully, “look at me.”

Ari sank into the bath, arms crossed over his chest, until everything from his nose down was submerged. Only then he looked at Gus. The Odelian took a deep breath.

“Your fiancée is going to get here in the next few days, remember?” he said gently. Ari looked away, eyebrows furrowing grumpily. Gus just wanted Ari to forget about this ‘marriage’ between the two of them. It was something stupid they had come up with when they were children, that they would marry one another. But it wasn’t possible, and repeating it over and over was as painful for Gus as it was for Ari. “ _Omarian,”_ he snapped, “Stop acting like a moody child. You know your duty.”

Arian disappeared underwater with a soft _plop._ Gus groaned and glared up at the ceiling, frustrated.

“Fine,” he growled, “drown, then.”

But after a few seconds Ari didn’t resurface and Gus, who was too overprotective over him, shifted closer and reached under the water. He found Ari’s body and wrapped his arms around him, hauling him up forcefully. Arian was limp in his grip, stubbornly looking to the side even as his lips parted to suck in air a little more harshly than usual. His hair was plastered to his face and with one hand Gus pushed it off, keeping his other arm firmly wrapped around the Prince to stop him from attempting to drown again. He also tried to not focus on the feeling of Ari’s wet, naked body pressed up against his.

“Hey,” Gus said, gentler now, pinching Ari’s cheek, “don’t be mad at me. It’ll be fine.”

Ari bit his bottom lip and Gus saw his expression crumble. He had always been emotional and easy to upset, and now tears filled his dark eyes and his brows wrinkled as he tried to stop himself from crying. He sniffled, and a tear tumbled down his cheek, racing against the water droplets already on the boy’s face. It broke Gus’ heart.

“Don’t cry,” he said.

“I-I don’t want to marry a-anyone else,” Ari’s lower lip wobbled.

“He’ll be nice,” Gus assured him in a soft whisper, pushing Ari’s wet hair back, “He’s a Lord, you know. He’s probably tall and strong and very handsome. He’s probably as sweet as you.”

“No!” Ari yelled suddenly and flung his wet arms around Gus’ neck, hugging himself to the other boy fiercely, “No I don’t _want_ him. I-I only w-want...,” he couldn’t finish as sobs suddenly wracked his body. He clung onto Gus and cried desperately and Gus _knew_ he should have just pushed him away and told him to control himself but it was so hard. Instead he found himself hugging his friend and holding him just as tightly as Ari was holding him. He had promised to protect him, and now he was forcing Ari to do something he didn’t want to do.

“Shush, Ari,” Gus murmured as Arian’s sobs subsided into hiccups, “It’s alright, I won’t leave you, I’ll still be here.”

“B-But...,” the boy pulled away from Gus, thought he still gripped his biceps with his hands, as if afraid to let go completely. His eyes were red, “Urofis t-teaches that love is the most i-important thing, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Gus exhaled. The Shairin were such a confusing people, and so was their religion, “The First Scroll of Urofis does teach that, Ari, but you’re a Prince and you have a duty. Even Seraf had to marry Burha and Eri before Kattie.”

Ari sniffled but visibly calmed down, “So can you a-at least be my second husband?” he asked hopefully. A burst of startled laughter came out of Gus’ mouth and he was unable to control himself as he leaned over and kissed Ari’s wet forehead.

“Maybe,” he said, grinning. Ari grinned back.

“I love you,” he said softly. Gus’ heart clenched and his smile melted away. Gods only knew how hard it was for him to maintain self control with Ari saying that to him, “You love me too, right?” the boy whispered.

“You’re my best friend, of course I love you,” it was all Gus could handle in that moment. He stood up, water sloshing over the side of the bath, “Let’s get dressed before we’re late.”

***

Kater spun in the centre of the imperial hall, arms raised above her head as she performed the bridal dance. Her face had been unveiled when she and Seraf were married, and now she looked freer and less restricted, with amber flowers tangled in her long chestnut hair. Seraf couldn’t bear to look away from her, watching every sway of her hips, every flutter of her fingers, with bated breath. She danced a little shyly, aware of the hundreds of wedding guests watching her from around the hall. Burha’s dance had been perfect and controlled, all those years ago, and Eryel’s had been wild and seductive, though it had been Burha she was seducing, not Seraf.

The music was wild and loud, the musicians themselves swaying to it on the little platform they were situated on, surrounded by beautiful, half-naked exotic dancers who were lounging motionlessly at their feet and respecting the bride’s dance. Around Kater was Therian, Seraf’s mother, and Eryel and Burha, as well as half a dozen of Seraf’s cousin, holding hands and spinning too. Kater’s own family was not present – her parents had been slaughtered back in Atavya, and her only brother taken slave just like her. She hadn’t seen him since she was a child. But now she had Seraf, and he would be the most perfect husband.

Kater’s eyes met the Leahil’s and she stopped spinning. The hall erupted into wild yells, cheers and clapping and Kater got on one knee and bowed. Seraf eagerly climbed off of his throne and approached his new wife, heart pounding. He was overwhelmed with euphoria. Finally, after so many years, he could be happy.

Seraf took Kater’s gloved hand in his and her whole face seemed to glow as he pulled her close. She touched his face and stood on her tiptoes before kissing him gently. The guests went even wilder. No wonder the Beaus considered them barbarians; Shairin weddings were nothing like the uptight, planned weddings of the Beaus or even the Mairi. Here there was excessive drinking, brawls and sex just outside the hall, there was kissing and groping and seductive dancing, adultery and sodomy and everything in-between. Tonight women will be going with women, and men with men, and groups would spend unrestrained, orgasmic nights together. Weddings always ensured good times, especially royal ones.

“Guests!” Seraf raised his and Kater’s connected hands a little upwards, “Family, friends. Let us drink and dance till dawn, and then drink and dance some more!”

The cheer that echoed through the hall was almost deafening. The musicians took up another song, full of drums and high-pitched flutes, a merry number that had guests on their feet in moments, pulling each other to the centre of the massive hall. In the warm, golden candle-light groups of girls twirled each other around, skirts and veils rustling. Dancers slinked among the groups of gathered people and draped their arms over shoulders and waists, whispering sweet nothings into the ears of the recipients in hopes of an intoxicating, ecstasy-filled night. The celebration had only just begun and the new moon hung freshly in the clear summer night sky, but already some couples were stealing away to make love in the guest bedrooms, or the hallways, or outside in the courtyard or gardens or even on the stacks of hay in the camel stables. Scattered around the room were flame-dancers, spinning sticks burning with flames in mesmerizing shapes through the air. Silent, ghostly servants moved between the guests, filling golden cups with spiced wine to the brim. It was luxury and wealth and pleasure, all on display.

Arian and Gus were sitting on plush pillows gathered in one corner of the hall, watching the dancers. They sat close, their thighs pressed together with a plate of zurumi, little sweet balls of cream, pistachios and fruit, balancing on their legs. Gus was traditionally dressed in Odelian clothing; a loose, pale blue tunic that fell to his mid-thigh, lightweight leggings and sandals, a loose white cloak swept over one of his shoulders and kept in place with a golden pin bearing the insignia of Augustus’ house– a swooping falcon. Despite living here for so many years, he was still a ward and representing his kingdom. Contrastingly, at his side Omarian wore traditional Shairin clothing. The servants had fussed over him, as they always did, to ensure he looked perfect. His hair fell in beautiful loose, bouncy curls that brushed against his shoulders. He had a golden circlet on his head that ended in a little ‘V’ between his brows and a partly transparent white shirt on, it’s sleeves bunching out at his wrists, paired with bright crimson pants that also buffed out at the knee. There was a matching shawl that had fallen to the crook of his elbows, and golden bangles at his ankles. The moment he and Gus had sat down on the pillows he had kicked off his satin slippers and now he wriggled his little toes as he ate the zurumi happily.

“You’re getting crumbs everywhere,” Gus nudged him, pretending that was the reason why he couldn’t stop looking at the Prince. The younger boy blinked up at him and smiled, shrugging and continuing to eat without a care in the world. Gus sighed, “You’re hopeless, you know?”

“I know,” Ari replied evenly, unbothered. Gus smiled. He didn’t think there was a second person like Ari in the world.

“Wine, my Lord?” a servant materialised beside the two of them. Gus smiled awkwardly.

“Perhaps not-“

“Yes!” Ari exclaimed, shoving his goblet out to the servant.

“Oh _no,”_ Gus plucked it out of his hand, “You know you and liquor don’t mix well!”

Ari pouted, but as Gus wasn’t paying attention the servant hurriedly filled the goblet and moved on. Ari started clapping and giggling, almost toppling the plate of zurumi. Gus sighed and looked at the goblet – the last time Arian had a cup he vomited and then was sick in bed for three days. His health had always been frail.

“I’m drinking,” Gus gave the boy a pointed look, and then slid the zurumi completely into his lap, “You’re eating.” Ari hated being treated like a child, and his expression fell so Gus added, “then we’re dancing.”

Omarian brightened up, “Alright,” he said, and started shoving the desert into his mouth. Gus snorted and brought the wine to his lips. It was warm and spicy, and burned his throat when it went down. The night was hot and steamy, with the doors of the imperial hall thrown wide open and allowing guests free access to the gardens and courtyards. Somehow though, the hot drink made Gus cool down, so his skin didn’t feel quite so sticky. So many years here, and the heat still sometimes got to him.

The two ate and drank respectively and watched the dancers some more. Kater and Seraf seemed unable to look away from one another, dancing as if they were the only two people in the world. Ari liked that.

“I’m happy they’re happy,” he said, mouth-full.

“Chew your food, Ari,” Gus reminded him, “but yes, I’m happy too. Hopefully she’s his last wife, though I must admit I enjoy the weddings.”

“What are weddings like in the Odelian Empire?” Ari questioned. Gus shrugged.

“Not as memorable as these.”

As he said that two men and a woman collapsed onto the pillows near the two, and started giggling and kissing each other. Hands began to wander, and clothes were being pulled aside and Gus was starting to feel uncomfortable.

“Here,” Arian proudly showed him the plate he cleaned, “I’m done eating, let’s dance.”

“One moment, one moment,” Gus drained his drink and stood up hurriedly, wanting to get away from the heating up trio. He offered his hand to Arian, and pulled the Prince up. Ari himself hadn’t even paid attention to the people that were now on the pillows, too excited to dance with Gus. He loved doing it and they used to dance together plenty when they were little, but as they got older they did it far less which was disappointing.

They found a relatively secluded part of the floor where they had less of a danger of getting barged into by spinning couples. The wine had made Gus relax somewhat and he slipped an arm around Ari’s waist with practiced ease – he had done it dozens of time before. The Prince grinned up at him and placed one hand on Gus’ upper arm, sliding the other into his palm. Gus tugged him closer and they spun together slowly – now the music was deeper, more rhythmic and drawn out. The boys let go of each-others hands soon and grabbed each other’s waists instead. Gus’ hand fitted into the dip of Ari’s waist perfectly, while the Prince’s own palm seemed to burn a hole through Gus’ tunic.

As the dance continued, happiness burst in Arian’s chest. He hated thinking about things that upset him, and this wedding was a perfect distraction. To be able to freely touch and dance with Gus was something that Ari always wanted. He loved seeing the way Gus gradually relaxed into the dance and started smiling more, holding Ari’s hand above his head and encouraging the boy to spin as many times as he could. They weren’t the most graceful or controlled, and honestly neither of them really paid attention to anyone else but each other. Arian was enjoying the moment and Gus was just trying to stop himself from pulling Ari flush against him and doing something stupid, like kissing him.

Meanwhile across the imperial hall, settled in the shadows of an alcove where the candle-light didn’t reach, were Burha and Eryel. Waterfalls of flowers fell from the ceiling, concealing them partially and giving them some privacy. Burha had Eryel up against the wall and was kissing her giggling lover’s neck, hands resting on her hips.

“It would be funny if we were caught,” Eryel whispered, half-drunk. She ran her fingers through Burha’s caramel hair with thought, then slid her hands down the other girl’s back.

“No it wouldn’t,” Burha breathed against her neck, then bit her earlobe playfully. Eryel snickered and grabbed the woman’s chin, pulling her up for a kiss. They pressed together, and their dresses made a lovely contrast, even in the dark, the crimson and gold of Burha’s pressed flush against the aquamarine of Eryel’s. Their lips moved together with practiced precision that the two had perfected in the past few years. They hadn’t expected to fall in love, but when Burha spotted the beautiful Lady visiting the harem she begged Seraf to marry her so they didn’t have to part. And now they could stay together forever.

“Don’t you want to go up to our room?” Eryel asked, sliding her leg between Burha’s. The older girl gave her a pointed look and pushed her knee away, sweeping aside the garland of flowers so the two could look out at the hall.

“Not yet, Kater will be all in nerves. You know she’s been saving her virginity for Seraf.”

Eryel snorted, “I don’t see why,” she peered at the newlyweds who were still dancing, looking into each other’s eyes, “It’s not like Seraf cares.”

“I think he appreciates it though,” Burha pointed out, pinching Eryel’s bony hip with her free hand, “The fact neither of them slept with anyone during the Pleasure Night was nice. I don’t think either of them could stomach the idea of sleeping with anyone else.”

Eryel crossed her arms over her chest and pouted, “Seraf slept with you on your wedding night.”

Burha rolled her eyes, “It was _once,_ and we were drunk...and,” she could still see her lover’s jealousy so she pulled the dark-haired beauty closer, so their lips barely touched, “I like you much, much better.”

Eryel snickered and their lips met in a soft kiss. Then the two pulled apart again to look at their wedding couple. Eryel’s eyes strayed to another couple though, a pair of giggling boys. She sighed. Burha followed her gaze.

“I know, Eri,” she said gently and pulled Eryel into her chest, releasing the flowers out of her hands so that they fell closed again, like a curtain. Burha stroked Eryel’s hair, “They can’t be together, Eri.”

“Fuck that,” the other woman replied, nudging her nose against Burha’s, “It seems awfully unfair that we get to find happiness with each other, and that Seraf is allowed to marry Kater, and yet Arian has to marry some outsider instead of the man he really loves.”

Burha kissed the girl’s pale forehead, “It will end badly, I know it. But Ari has a duty...”

“Gus loves him though,” Eryel said fiercely, “and he understands him, more than me or you or Seraf. More than anyone else. This marriage will _break_ Ari. He won’t be able to love this new man, or share his bed, or-“

“Shhhh,” Burha kissed her, “that’s a worry for another day. For now, let us dance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm honestly kinda shocked by how well you guys are responding to this story since it's all so slow XD thankyou so much for kudos and comments :**


	5. A Head of Gold

 

**Dawn of the following day, Late Autumn, 212CE**

**Tekosh Wall, The Baijin Patch, Tekoshi.**

**The Mairi Empire.**

****

_This is bad,_ Miko worried at his bottom lip as he approached the next corpse, poking it with the long wooden stick he had been handed. With some effort he managed to roll the body over. It was an old man, the skin on his face leathery and purple, the noose from which he had hung still tight around his neck. _Really bad._ Miko sighed. At least it wasn’t Tomoya. The boy stepped over the body and moved onto the next one.

The High Guardians had all of this part of the Wall on high-alert, and all the spare Guardians out on the Empty Land, searching for the runaway in the fog. Their figures wandered around now like ghosts, shrouded in mist. Some of the younger guardians looked teary as they were forced to turn over corpse after corpse. The older men were annoyed, their mouths covered with cloths. They had better things to do than searching bodies, of which there were many behind the Wall.

Miko personally didn’t mind. As the runt of his year he was always given some of the worst jobs, which included the cremation of the bodies of the guardians who perished. He was used to death, and the crows circling over-head. What he wasn’t used to was the heavy feeling in his chest, and the fear in his gut that the next body he turned might be Tomoya. Ever since he had gone down the rope four days ago Miko had lost all contact with him, as he had predicted, but now he had to live with the knowledge that he didn’t know where his friend was, and never would. If Tomoya wasn’t any of the bodies here, which Miko prayed he wasn’t, he could have died later on, in the scorching heat of the desert, or by the guards at one of the Shairin cities he’d reach. Or maybe he never made it that far.

It was fair to say Miko’s mood was fairly sour. He felt as if people were staring at him and giving him the side-eye; it was common knowledge he had been one of Tomoya’s closest friends, and there were whispers going around the Wall that maybe he had been the one who aided the escapee, even if the High Guardians had cleared him of any allegations. Still, this situation was _not_ good, and Miko was on edge and could barely sleep at night, plagued by nightmares about what might have happened to his best friend, or by ones in which he was the one being executed, thrown over the side of the wall with a noose around his neck. In those dreams he couldn’t breathe and struggled on the rope for all eternity, unable to die and staring down into the fog at his feet.

It was a horrible dream. Miko shuddered and poked another body.

“Put a little more effort into it, Scrawny,” the taunting voice came from the fog. Miko flinched and looked to his side, where a figure emerged from the murky white air. The small boy’s shoulders slumped and he rolled his eyes.

“Oh,” he said unenthusiastically, turning back to the next corpse, “it’s you.”

“What, you not excited to see me?” Keito Shingatasha asked confidently, arms crossed over his chest. His stick was tied to his back, and there was a big smirk on his face as he looked down on Miko arrogantly. He was a big man though he was the same age as Miko, and was one of the few Guardians who kept their hair short, though now it was covered with a red rag.

“Maybe I’d be excited to see you if you ever had anything interesting to say,” Miko replied, not bothering to even look at Keito. It was safe to say the two of them didn’t get along. Keito was the youngest son of a prominent and wealthy family from the Jenjo Patch, and he had come to the Wall to become a strong and brave guardian to do his family proud. Honestly, Miko couldn’t care less, but Keito seemed to have found an easy target in him and now pestered him every chance he got, seemingly encouraged by the fact that Miko rarely gave him any sort of reaction. He appeared to hate everything about Miko; his choppy hair, and how thin he was, and how useless and clumsy, and that he came from a poor family, and now the fact that he was friends with a disgraced murderer was added to the list. And Miko still couldn’t care less. He wished Keito would find himself a hobby or something to keep him occupied.

Keito’s eye twitched in annoyance, “Sharp tongue as always, eh?” he said, stepping closer to Miko in an attempt to seem threatening. But Miko was used to his behaviour, and didn’t even look up, stepping over the corpse on the ground, hoping Keito would get bored and move on. Unfortunately the tall man followed him. Miko fought a groan of frustration – he was really not in the mood right now.

“Kei, why don’t you go see if you’re not at the Wall?”

“Don’t call me ‘Kei,’” Keito snapped and grabbed Miko’s arm, jerking him around. Miko stumbled, like a rag doll in Keito’s hands. The tall boy looked annoyed, “We’re not friends,” he growled, leaning down so he was in Miko’s personal space, eyebrows knitted.

“Seriously, _Keito,”_ Miko roughly pulled his arm out and gave the older boy a bored, tired look, “I don’t know why you bother picking on me since you have the heart of a little girl and get all in a huff after two words from me.”

Keito’s nostrils flared and Miko saw the fury in his eyes. It was so easy to rile him up.

“Listen here you little-,” Keito hissed.

“Back up, Shingatasha,” the bark was familiar and came from behind Miko. The small boy smiled as his two best friends appeared by his side, as if the fog had summoned them. Reno Yugutazu was twenty six winters old, and a tall, strong Guardian, one of the most trusted ones on the Wall, and tasked mostly with training the youngest additions to the Wall. He had a permanent frown on his face, and was now emotionlessly staring Keito down, his long choppy brown hair braided down his back. He had a long thin sword at his waist and wasn’t holding a stick; he was overseeing the hunt for Tomoya. On Miko’s left was Akiharo Ue, whose shorter, bizarrely white hair usually stood out among the crowd of dark-haired Guardians, but now melted slightly into the milky fog. Aki had lost an eye before he came to the Wall; his abusive father had gauged it out with a hot iron poker and now he wore a black patch over it. However Aki’s other eye was glaring openly at Keito, arms crossed over his chest.

“Stop bothering our friend, Shingatasha,” he snapped, “or I’ll kick your ass all the way to the Shairin Empire.”

Keito’s eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. He looked at Miko, “You’re lucky you have your guard-dogs, Ondera. But one of them is already gone, probably dead, _hopefully_ dead. How long do you think these two will stick by you?”

Aki moved faster than Miko could follow and in seconds he was in front of the taller man, a small knife pressed to Keito’s neck, “Say one more thing about Tomoya and I’ll open your throat out and leave you here for the crows to eat your rotten insides.”

Keito’s cruel, cold words didn’t bother Miko, who was used to his abuse. He reached for Aki and tugged him back by his kimono.

“Aki,” Reno didn’t even twitch, voice cold and commanding, “leave him.”

Aki _tsk’ed_ and slowly dropped his hand and stepped back, still in a glaring match with Keito, who looked furious.

“Back to work, Shingatasha,” Reno said calmly, “and don’t cause trouble with Miko anymore.”

“Whatever,” Keito snapped, gave Miko one more annoyed look, and stomped off into the fog.

“Asshole,” Aki spat at the ground. Reno shook his head and sighed.

“I really hope Tekoshi isn’t attacked any time soon with men like him on the Wall.”

“Why does he _always_ bother you?!” Aki demanded, looking at Miko, “It’s like he’s offended by your existence!”

“Tell me about it,” Miko smiled gently, “But don’t worry, I may be small but I can handle it.”

Reno reached out and squeezed his shoulder, “We know, Miko.”

The three looked at each other. Miko bit his bottom lip and hesitated with the question, “Any luck finding him?” he asked quietly.

“No,” Reno replied, “I think he’s made it out.”

“Hopefully,” Aki sighed. Miko stretched his arms out over his head and yawned, trying to mask his worry.

“If anyone can do it, Tommy can!” he said cheerfully, remaining optimistic. Before his friends could dampen the mood with a realistic outlook a deep rumbling sound echoed through the plain; the sound of a horn being blown, “Ladies and gentlemen,” Miko grinned, “Breakfast!”

**That same afternoon, halfway across the world.**

**Shariba, Arid.**

**The Shairin Empire.**

****

Anxiety curled in Tomoya’s gut as he neared the gates of the city, and it tasted bitter in his mouth. _Finally,_ after days and days of walking through seemingly never-ending desert he had made it to civilisation, to the city of Shariba. Gods, how long had it been since he had left the Wall? Tomoya had lost track of time; halfway through his first day of travels the mist and the dusty ground had slowly began to give way to sand, and for days now Tomoya had been walking through it, feeling his skin melting in the unbearable heat of the sun.

Honestly he had been afraid that Taiyoo was punishing him and that he was destined to walk the desert alone with his thoughts and guilt until he finally died of exhaustion. But alas, just as the last of the water Miko had packed for him began to run out, he had seen this city in the distance, and now that his relief was passing he began to be afraid. What if he would be interrogated by the Shairin, or killed on the spot? With his pale skin and almond-shaped eyes he looked unlike any of them, and what if they thought him an enemy, which he had been until his arrest? _Anything is better than that cell..._

The city that rose in front of the ex-Guardian was majestic, with a grand golden gate rising at the head and big, palace-like buildings piled side by side, made of white stone with golden domed roofs that reflected the blinding light of the sun. Exotic music drifted to Tomoya as the exhausted man approached the gate, feet dragging, clinging onto his rucksack. His training reminded him that he should check the perimeter first for enemies, but honestly the man felt drained and defeated and he didn’t care if he was shot dead on sight. All he wanted right now was some food, water and a bed to sleep in. The last few days had sucked all the energy out of him.

He barely noticed that there were no guards at the gate, he was so ready to collapse. His back ached, as did his legs, and his throat felt as if someone had scratched it raw. There was sand _everywhere,_ including his arse-crack, and he never wanted to look at another desert ever again. He looked around tiredly, and his mind found it hard to understand the peculiar city he had found himself in. There were coloured, half see-through sashes stretched between buildings, which were all many floors high and almost piled on top of each other. The main road branched out into many shadowed alleyways, over which climbed arches and strings of laundry that joined windows and doors. Everything was yellow and beige, sand particles floating in the air from where they were kicked up off the road. Tomoya slid into the shade offered by one of the houses, wanting to get out of the merciless sun. He yearned for trees or some kind of greenery, but found none in Shariba. Instead he got huge camels dragging themselves past, and merchants with bags piled high with goods. Without knowing where he was going, dizzy with sun-stroke and half-asleep on his feet, Tomoya turned into a stray road. It was shadowy and cool here, as high up overhead two buildings almost touched roofs. Tomoya heard shouting and looked up to see two veiled women half-hanging out of the upstairs windows, talking and laughing with each other. They were speaking Airyan, and Tomoya knew all the languages in the world for he had been taught them at the Wall, but his mind was too exhausted to even attempt to focus on what the women were saying.

He wanted to cry when the alley ended and he found himself on one of the sun-lit main roads once more. However this one was different and bustling with people. There was music playing from a man sitting cross-legged on a divan on the floor, playing a bizarre long wooden instrument. Beneath the inns and houses was a bazaar of seemingly never-ending half-tents. Tomoya’s legs pulled him inward as he was attracted by the sweet, spicy smell of food and the prospect of finding water.

Some of the stalls were situated in small arched rooms carved into walls, while others were tables with multi-coloured cloth roofs stretched over them like roofs. The stalls all swam in opulence; they were full of colourful and exotic fruit Tomoya had never seen before, and many of the vendors were frying up deliciously smelling food. It appeared as if you could buy everything under the sun in the bazaar; sandals and boots, silky, rich fabrics or dresses dripping with jewels, beautifully carved musical instruments and terrifying-looking swords with curved blade that shimmered in the sun, intricately embroidered pillows and carpets and hand-crafted pots. Tomoya was honestly surprised by the grandeur of it all, and that there weren’t poor and sickly people laying on the side of the road like there was in the Mairi Empire. Generally everyone seemed happy and friendly – a group of young children had began dancing in front of the musician, and people were eagerly exchanging products, merchants allowing customers to touch the fabrics they were selling, or have a taste of their food before they decided to purchase anything. The bazaar was full of laughter. It was like a different world, and it was hard to believe that only a few short days across the desert was the isolate, harsh and impoverished Tekoshi. 

Tomoya stood there, lost as the crowd dodged around him. His lips were pale and cracked, eyes half-closed. _What if I just die?_ He wondered absent-mindedly. He didn’t belong in this cheerful, colourful world.

A hoarse voice called something at him from his left and Tomoya turned. An elderly woman was watching him from one of the rooms in a wall that had the upper windows thrown open, with young half-naked boys and girls hanging out and watching the bazaar. The room the woman was in was filled with beautiful flagons, and if the woman’s dark hands were anything to go by, some of them were freshly made. The woman herself had wise eyes set in a wrinkled, dark face, with her head wrapped in a black scarf. She was a small, frail thing.

“Child,” she repeated, and Tomoya finally understood what she was saying. He shifted through the crowd and stopped in front of her, compelled by an invisible force.

“Hello,” he managed. The woman held out her hand and beckoned Tomoya close with a crooked, dirty finger. The man shuffled toward her; honestly in that moment he would have followed any instruction given to him and when he ducked into the room he was enveloped in cool shade, for which he was grateful for. The woman looked up at him like an owl.

“I have been watching you stand there aimlessly,” she croaked, cracking a smile and showing off her mostly tooth-less mouth, “you want to get hit by a camel, child?”

“No,” Tomoya said hoarsely, “I just don’t know where to go.”

“So I thought,” the woman looked over him, “You are from the Walled City, yes?”

Tomoya nodded, swaying lightly on his feet.

“What is your name?”

“Tomoya,” he whispered. The woman nodded,

“I am Raghana,” she replied, not questioning Tomoya any more about why he was in enemy territory. The woman reached to her side and produced a clay flagon. She held out her frail arms towards the Mairi, the sleeves of her dress pooling at her thin elbows,“ Here, drink, you look ready to collapse.”

Normally Tomoya had manners and self-discipline, but at the mention of drink his throat reminded him of the agony he was in. He crumbled to his knees and eagerly ripped the flagon from Raghana’s hands, bringing it to his mouth. He drank greedily, moaning in relief as water gushed down his throat. He didn’t care that the liquid was lukewarm because it quenched the burning in his throat and seemed to clear away the sand in his lungs. Raghana chuckled as she watched him drink.

“You remind me of my grandson,” she said fondly, “Such a young lad, and strong too to have crossed that wretched desert. You have money in that sack, child?”

Tomoya, having drained the flask, put it down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, “Yes,” he said breathlessly, feeling a little more awake and refreshed, “I can pay for the water.”

Raghana held up a wrinkled hand, “No need, child. But you will need money to sleep, yes?”

The thought of a bed made Tomoya feel dizzy, “Yes,” he said. He would have been happy to sleep here, in this little room filled with flagons, on the ground. It would be better than sleeping in the desert again.

“If you follow down the street you will get to an alley filled with inns. Go into the one with a red veil over the door and say I have sent you. It is my grandson’s free house and he will give you a room for a little money,” Raghana said.

“I...,” Tomoya frowned, not understanding why this stranger was being so kind to him, and what he did to deserve this blessing. Perhaps Taiyoo had heard his prayers and decided he had suffered enough in the desert, “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You will learn, child,” Raghana said, face wrinkling even more as she smiled, making her look a little like a dried prune, “That we Shairin are a welcoming people, nothing like your cold, hostile kind.”

Tomoya couldn’t argue with her. He stood and bowed to her, “You have my gratitude, my lady.”

“I am not lady,” Raghana laughed hoarsely. She pulled out a pipe out of the folds of her colourful dress and stuck it in between her gums. Tomoya watched her light it and a stream of blue smoke curl up into the air, “Just a merchant, child.”

Tomoya shouldered his sack, bowed again and slipped out into the hot road. The sun seemed to hang lower in the sky though, making the man hopeful that sunset was close and that soon enough this scorching heat would be just a painful memory, though he doubted this. The first few days in the desert were hard because during the day it got increasingly hotter but the temperature would plummet the moment the sun set, but the closer Tomoya got to Shariba the hotter the nights got.

He walked the way that Raghana had instructed him, but soon found that he was drawn to the food stalls. His stomach rumbled and cramped with hunger – he hadn’t eaten anything but dry bread in days. _I can indulge myself, just for once,_ Tomoya told himself as he approached a stall behind which a fat, bald man was busy stirring multiple pots at once.

“Good afternoon, good sir,” Tomoya said in perfect, although accented Airyan. The man looked up at him and inclined his head, no hint of animosity in his eyes.

“Good afternoon,” he replied, “How can I help you sir?”

Tomoya’s eyes danced over the food spread out in front of him, but he didn’t know what anything was. He finally took a safe bet, since he had never been much of a risker, and pointed at a piece of flattened, charred black bread that had beans and some sort of green paste spread over top.

“How much is that one, sir?”

“A copper piece.”

Tomoya shrugged his sack off and shoved his hand inside. It was nowhere near as full as it had been when he set out, with his supplies having depleted, so Tomoya easily found the little purse inside containing money Miko had smuggled out for him. He fished out a copper and handed it to the vendor, who bowed his head and handed Tomoya the bread.

The ex-Guardian collapsed against the closest wall on the opposite side of the road, the sun beaming down at him. He ravished his food, practically inhaling it, his sack at his side. He closed his eyes and revelled in the sweet, slightly spicy and very aromatic item he was eating. It could have been horse-shit for all Tomoya cared, it tasted heavenly. He felt like he had now taken sufficient steps away from death, though when he finished his meal he found that he was parched again and yearned for water. He had to find this free house quickly.

He reached for his sack, and his hand swiped over air. Tomoya blinked, puzzled and looked down where he had left it. At his side was just sandy earth.

“What the-,” the man’s heart twisted in his chest and he scrambled to his feet, looking around wildly. Had he already been robbed?! Clearly the Shairin weren’t as friendly as they pretended. Tomoya turned in a wild circle, panicking and getting weird glances. Everything he had was in that sack and without it he would not make it out of Shariba.

On accident, his eyes landed on a boy who was shoving his way through the streaming passer-bys. The only reason Tomoya noticed him was because he stood out like a sore thumb, his head golden among a crowd of black. He was moving quickly, as if he was scared, and against his back was Tomoya’s sack. The ex-Guardian saw red. He forgot his exhaustion as anger overtook him, and in moments he was hurrying after the boy, who ducked out of the main road and into a sandy alleyway.

Clearly he didn’t realise Tomoya was following him because he started walking leisurely as soon as he was out of the main road. The alley was narrow, with the backs of buildings rising on both sides. There were no stalls here, and nobody in the windows. The shade offered a cool reprise from the summer day, but Tomoya forgot the weather as he sped up his step. In moment he was directly behind the thief, and he grabbed him by the back of his tattered brown shirt, shoving him up against the closest wall.

“You little thief!” Tomoya shouted, his frustration and anger getting the best of him as he kept the man shoved up against the wall with his elbow. Obviously the man – or rather boy – hadn’t expected this because his light green eyes were wide with fear and shock.

He wasn’t Shairin, _perhaps Dreiyard or Beau,_ Tomoya guessed by his light skin and round eyes. His pale cheeks were red from sunburn, and he had a shock of light blond hair on his head, sticking up in all directions, with his eyebrows and eyelashes equally as light. There was a light sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of his button-like nose. He was young and thin, dressed in ragged old clothes, with his face smeared with dirt. He looked like he hadn’t seen a bath in longer than Tomoya. He also looked terrified.

“Let go!” he gasped, trying to shove Tomoya off him. The sack slid off his shoulder and hit the ground and Tomoya pressed him against the wall harder, fighting the urge to just snap the boy’s slender neck, “Stop it!” the blond hissed, bringing up his knee and wedging it between his and Tomoya’s stomach to keep him away. Tomoya drove his elbow further up against his throat and the boy wheezed, clawing at it with his hands, “You’re hurting me!” he gasped out.

“And you’re stealing my things!” Tomoya growled back, glaring at the boy who glared right back. He was obviously in a dire situation, and yet he didn’t seem interested in appeasing Tomoya. When the man loosened his hold a little after his reason came back upon seeing the boy’s face turn more red from the lack of air, the blond started rattling.

“It’s your own bloody fault for leaving your shit on the ground!” he snarled, twisting his fair features and digging his nails into Tomoya’s arm, “I mean, how stupid do you have to be?! There are plenty of thieves in the Shairin Empire, if I hadn’t taken it, someone else would have-“

“Do you want me to fucking _kill you?!”_ Tomoya bellowed, barely keeping his nerves at bay. The boy’s jaw clenched and his rosy mouth pulled into a straight line.

A wave of dizziness hit Tomoya and the man swayed, releasing his grip on the boy. As adrenaline seeped out of his bones the tiredness returned and dark spots danced in Tomoya’s vision. His world tilted and his eyes fluttered shut for a second. When he regained his composure the blond was still there against the wall, staring at Tomoya with wide eyes.

“Shit,” he said, “Are you sick?”

“No,” Tomoya gritted. His sleep-deprived brain worked frantically to place what language the boy was speaking. Tomoya understood it, and spoke it back automatically, but it took him a moment to actually place that it was Kasha, the language of the Dukkosh people who lived in the West in little unorganised settlements and villages, surrounded by the Odelian Empire. Tomoya was far from ‘home,’ but this boy, whoever he was, was half a world away. Tomoya wondered how he had even gotten here in the first place, but then decided he didn’t care.

“I am simply tired.” He snatched his satchel up from the floor. In all fairness the thief was right; Tomoya had to keep his possessions close.

The Dukkosh hadn’t moved. Tomoya glared at him.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” he reminded the blond. Only then did the boy push himself off the wall and take off, sprinting down the alley and back towards the main road as if Tomoya was going to chase him. The man sighed and watched the boy disappear, before rubbing his eyes. Everything hurt, but he couldn’t help but feel a little guilty at how violently he had treated the blond; he hadn’t look malicious, only hungry and tired, just like Tomoya. Maybe he should have helped him out, like Raghana had helped him...

 _It’s too late now_ , Tomoya comforted himself and shouldered his sack. He needed to get to the free house before he really did kill someone.

Tomoya had never been much of a drinker especially since overindulging was frowned upon at the Wall, and yet now that night had fallen over Shariba and he was holed up in the dark, smoky corner of the free house he found that it offered him some respite. The flavour of spiced wine was bizarre though, intensely burning Tomoya’s throat and making him want to cough, and yet he continued to drink it because it made him forget about the muggy heat of the night, and about his own dire situation.

Now that his elation at finding a place to stay had passed and he was fed, hydrated, and out of imminent danger, he felt depression descend onto him. He couldn’t help but feel the agonizing pangs of loneliness as he sat alone, obscured by shadows, watching customers venture in and out of the free house.

It was a big building on one of the main streets of Shariba, with colourful sashes stretched out over the road between it and the brothel across the street. Clients happily ventured between the two, stuffing their bellies at the free house, and then waddling over for some pleasure just next door. Tomoya was staying well away from the latter, remaining in the house instead, not wanting to be seduced by prostitutes. He watched the people around him instead, so different from the Mairi people with their loose, revealing clothing and bronzy skin. Women and men alike mingled together, like equals, everybody drank the same, sang the same. The music that Tomoya had heard when he first entered the city seemed never ending, and here too there were musicians clustered together and dancing lightly on their feet as they played their instruments. The building was sand-stone, and the room downstairs was a large rectangular space lit by dim, intricate lamps that hung close to the floor on long chains from the ceiling and offered an intimate, golden illumination without the unnecessary heat. Groups of Shairin were sitting on huge red pillows strewn about the floor, with young men and women with veiled faces sashaying between them with flagons, refilling cups and laughing seductively at the customers. Incense curled in the air, and everything smelled rich and beautiful.

Tomoya felt incredibly uncomfortable. He was used to discipline and manners and distance, and the Shairin seemed to lack all of these things. People were touching freely, kissing, hands wandering, ignoring the fact that they were surrounded by others. The laughter was boisterous, the alcohol drank in excess. Everybody did as they pleased. Tomoya’s eyes landed on two men sharing a pillow, and he gasped in shock when they leaned in and shared a passionate kiss. They would have been hanged from the Wall in Mairi for that.

The ex-Guardian looked into his half filled cup, cheeks burning. He saw his own watery reflection in the crimson liquid and contemplated how he had found himself in a city full of deviants, and yet there was none of the bitterness and fear that hung in the air of Tekoshi here. The people seemed...happy. Tomoya swallowed and turned his cup in his pale hands. He couldn’t say that he wasn’t grateful – Raghana’s grandson had been kind and taken only four bronze coins off Tomoya for his room, which was up in the cluttered attic of the public house; it possessed a square window with no glass, a large bed that sat low on the ground, piled high with pillows, and a basin to wash. The grandson had offered to give him a companion for the night free of charge, but Tomoya had declined, horrified at the prospect of sleeping with yet another person that wasn’t someone had had married. He had already been punished for his first affair, and he would not repeat his mistake. The next time he shared someone’s bed, it would be his wife.

 _Hiroa._ The memory of the woman made Tomoya’s chest ache and without thinking he drained his cup, trying to forget her desperately. In the desert he had fancied he had seen her, or a mirage of her, standing in the sand in her beautiful kimono, smiling at him. And yet when he tried to approach, to beg her for forgiveness, she would always disappear into the blazing, blinding sun and Tomoya would be left alone. Just as he was now. Would this be his life forever; exhausted, plagued by guilt and unsure of where to go?

It was by pure chance that one of the lamps glinted off his hair, and yet it caught Tomoya’s eye, a splash of paleness in the sea of shadows. He blinked and looked across the room and there _he_ was, the blond thief from earlier, perched comfortably in a man’s lap. Tomoya tensed immediately, hand flying over to the sack situated between him and the wall to ensure it was still there. It was. Tomoya’s eyes narrowed as he watched the Dukkosh – what was he doing?

He looked different than earlier when Tomoya had seen him. Despite the fact that his face was still dirty and he was still wearing his rags, he appeared cheerful. He seemed even smaller than before due to the fact that the man whose lap he was in was huge and middle aged man, with a jaw covered in a thick, black curly beard. The two of them were surrounded by other Shairin – the big man’s friends, Tomoya guessed – who had a small, low table in front of them, with many cups of drink and their purses resting on them.  They were all laughing at something one of them said. Tomoya watched carefully. The Dukkosh was cosying up to the big Shairin, a hand resting casually on the man’s broad chest. He was grinning, eyes sparkling, blending in despite his appearance. Everybody fawned over him, men and women alike, passing him cups and feeding him peanuts, and Tomoya admitted there was something very charming about the way he tucked his unruly fair locks behind his ear, and the way he batted his eyelashes. Was he trying to seduce the big man? _Disgusting,_ Tomoya thought immediately, but couldn’t look away, his hand squeezing his cup.

It all happened very fast. One moment the Dukkosh was nuzzling the big man’s neck and leaning into the large hand that rested on his backside, and the next moment one of the women was on her feet, a curved blade embedded in the wood, a few inches away from where the Dukkosh’s fingers had been creeping towards one of the purses on the table. The atmosphere in the room shifted suddenly as everyone looked at the commotion; even the musicians ceased playing. Tomoya’s heart started to pound.

“Thief!” the woman bellowed, outraged. The expression on the big man’s face changed and his dark features twisted in anger. The Dukkosh, on his part, looked terrified all over again. _Idiot,_ Tomoya thought, _doesn’t he know that his actions have consequences?!_

“Disgrace!” the big man roared, rising to his feet and holding the Dukkosh up by his ragged brown cloak. The boy’s feet lifted off the ground and he yelped, writhing uselessly in the man’s grip until the woman lifted her weapon and pressed it to his throat. The boy paled. Raghana’s grandson came from the bar and approached the group, “We invite this outsider to drink and eat with us and he tries to rob us!”

“I don’t know what you’re saying!” the thief squeaked in Kasha.

“My friends!” the owner lifted his hands, “Let us remain calm. This criminal will be taken to the guards at once!”

“Wait!” the words were out of Tomoya’s mouth before he could stop them, and just like that all the heads in the house turned to look at him. He swallowed uneasily, not realising that he had stood up. His hands clenched at his sides and he tried to figure out how to back out of this situation without getting himself killed alongside the thief. And then his eyes met the startling green ones of the Dukkosh, and he looked absolutely petrified, and his gaze seemed to plead with Tomoya. The ex-Guardian didn’t owe him anything, and yet something tugged at his heart. He had trained so long to be a protector of the weak, and right now...well, the laws in the Empire, which Tomoya had studied at the Wall, dictated that for minor crimes the perpetrator would have his eyes burned out with hot coals. Tomoya didn’t feel that the Dukkosh deserved such treatment.

“Do you know him?” the big man barked.

“Yes,” Tomoya lied, “He is my...”

“Husband,” the boy squeaked in Kasha.

“Husband,” Tomoya replied thoughtlessly in Airyan, then glared at the Dukkosh who smiled sheepishly.

“Husband?!” the big Shairin asked gruffly, “And you allow him to whore around?!”

“See...,” Tomoya approached gingerly, hoping he didn’t seem threatening. The guests in the house watched him with interest, “Uh...we escaped from the Mairi Empire, purely for that reason. The...uh...Emperor isn’t keen on marriage between the same sex-“

“We know that boy,” the big man spat on the ground, as did some other customer’s. The owner’s eye twitched at the spittle gleaming on his carpet but he didn’t say anything.

“Yes,” Tomoya continued quickly, “and my husband and I are more... _freely,_ inclined. Hence why we came here; I do not mind that he is unfaithful to me. But we have no money, and he was only going to... _borrow..._ some in order for us to hire camels and get across the desert...,” Tomoya winced, realising he had just dug his grave.

To his surprise however, the big man put the Dukkosh down, and his female companion sheathed her sword. The blond seemed as shocked as Tomoya, but the anger evaporated from the big man.

“I will not shed your husband’s blood in this establishment,” he said gruffly, “but only because I do not think your intentions were evil. But have no doubt, the Shairin may be a free people,” he puffed his chest out proudly, “But we do not tolerate criminals.”

“What is he saying?” the Dukkosh asked in a whisper. Tomoya glared at him again and then quickly bowed to the big man.

“You have my thanks sir, it will not happen again. We will alter our ways,” he said seriously, before hissing in Kasha, “Get over here, you idiot.”

The Dukkosh scuttled to Tomoya’s side eagerly, ducking behind him as if Tomoya was a human shield. Raghana’s grandson gave them a pointed look, knowing very well that Tomoya had arrived alone, but thankfully he didn’t say anything and returned to the bar. Slowly life filtered back into the free house; the musicians started playing a cheerful tune and several people stood up to dance, while the others returned to their previous activities. The big man glared once more at the unlikely duo and sat down with his friends, saying nothing more.

“Outside,” Tomoya growled, “ _now.”_

He turned to the door and hurried through the public house, praying he didn’t get himself into any more trouble. The Dukkosh scuttled after him like a mouse, so close he was almost tripping over Tomoya’s feet.

Humid, unbearable air surrounded the pair when they stepped outside into the night. The streets, despite the late hour, were ablaze with light and full of people and music. It was as if the Shairin Empire, or at least Shariba, never slept. It was irritating and Tomoya whirled on the Dukkosh, seizing the boy’s wrist before he could even think about running, and dragged him into a shadowy gap between the public house and another inn right next door. Once out of sight of the passer-bys, Tomoya shoved the Dukkosh up against the wall in an humourless mockery of their first meeting mere hours before.

“What are you playing at?” Tomoya demanded in Kasha. It was so dark in the alley he could barely make out the boy’s facial expression, the light catching only on his light hair, “Are you trying to get yourself killed or is this some sick hobby of yours?!” without meaning to, his mind reeled back to how he had been seducing the big man. It just made Tomoya angrier.

“Why do you care, _husband?”_ the Dukkosh asked teasingly. He seemed unaffected by the whole ordeal at all, amusement laced in his voice. It made Tomoya’s blood boil but years at the Wall had taught him to keep his emotions in check.

“Is this a joke to you?” he asked quietly, coldly, “I just risked my life to save you.”

Tomoya flinched when he felt slender fingers creeping up the naked skin of his arm, “And I can repay you,” the hushed, sultry voice was almost unlike the Dukkosh. Tomoya’s heart skipped a beat and he shoved the boy’s hand away.

“You’re disgusting,” he growled, and felt the boy lean away.

“And you’re a prude,” he snorted, “I bet you’ve never had a good piece of ass before. Actually, I bet you haven’t had a woman either-“

“I would watch your words,” Tomoya interrupted snappishly, “you’re very easy to remember, Dukkosh, and it appears you have no friends in Shariba,” the man leaned in threateningly, “I don’t think anybody would care to even bury your body if they found you here tomorrow.”

The boy didn’t say anything, and Tomoya suddenly felt guilty, thinking maybe he had gone too far, “Who are you anyway?” he demanded.

“My name is Ivo,” came the emotionless reply.

“Ivo _what?”_

“Ivo, son of Yankovi.”

“Where are you from?”

“You sure ask a lot of questions, huh?”

“This is ridiculous,” Tomoya turned to leave the way he came but he felt a hand grab his arm.

“Wait!” the Dukkosh – Ivo – blurted, “Relax, alright? I make stupid, snide comments when I’m scared, at least that’s what father always told me.”

Something in the boy’s voice, perhaps a small hint of the fear he spoke off, made Tomoya hesitate. Now that they were facing the street he could see the boy’s dirty face, and he gave the boy a look. Ivo released his arm.

“I’m from a little village in Grudorin, in Dukkosha-“

“Aren’t all villages in Dukkosha little?” Tomoya asked.

“Hey,” Ivo crossed his arms over his chest and he looked vaguely annoyed, “Did you _jump_ over the Tekosh Wall, or did you grow wings and fly?”

Tomoya smothered his irritation, “You sure are smart for someone from the most illiterate nation in the world.”

“Do you _want_ to know, or not?” Ivo snapped. Tomoya did want to know, but he didn’t know why. He and this boy would separate in the next few minutes, and yet Tomoya couldn’t help but want to...what? Have an ally, speak with someone after so many days of isolation? Whatever the reason, the Mairi inclined his head.

“Right. Well,” Ivo cleared his throat, “the Odelians have been getting really intense recently, with trying to get the Dukkosha land and everything, unite their two kingdoms into one big empire and all that shit,” he rolled his eyes, clearly frustrated by politics that had nothing to do with Tomoya. The ex-Guardian had always been concerned primarily from the threat of the Shairin Empire that had proved an asylum to him now, and didn’t care for what happened in the rest of the world, “and since they’ve signed that agreement about slavery they’ve had a grand old time kidnapping my people and selling them overseas.” The boy spread his arms out, “Which is how I’m here. Those bloody Odelians sold me somewhere on the other side of Arid months ago, and ever since then I’ve been trying to get some money somehow, make my way to the port in Cheri to get back home.”

“You want to get to Hadia?” Tomoya frowned, “That’s a long walk from here, and if I remember the maps correctly you’ve gone too far north. At this rate you’ll end up in Lakosta.” He surveyed the boy, “Can you even _read?”_

Ivo’s cheeks reddened, “Shut up,” he huffed, “What are _you_ doing here?”

That was when Tomoya realised he had spent too much out here. Getting attached to kidnapped thieves wasn’t going to help him in his escape. Who knew if the Mairi hadn’t sent someone after him. He had to get out of Shariba, and fast. He was glad though to have met someone in a position as dire as his, and hoped that didn’t make him a bad person.

“Let me give you a piece of advice,” Tomoya said.

“Please do,” Ivo replied dryly, and the ex-Guardian ignored him.

“If you really want to get back home you need to get yourself a job and stop stealing, because you’ll end up dead sooner or later.”

“Thankyou for your words of wisdom,” Ivo rolled his eyes. Tomoya sighed. He wasn’t even angry or irritated anymore, he just yearned for his bed upstairs. He turned to leave, “Wait!” Ivo blurted and Tomoya turned, surprised by the desperation in his voice, “W-Where,” the boy’s voice trembled and he looked lost, “Where are you going...?”

Tomoya looked around, confused, “Back to my room?” he offered. Ivo opened his mouth to say something, then clearly thought better of it. For a moment he looked like a kicked puppy but then he straightened up and lifted his chin.

“Right,” he said, voice clear, “Thank you.”

Tomoya felt like he should have said something back. Tension hung thickly in the hot, still air between them, but Tomoya couldn’t think of anything else to tell the boy. It suddenly felt bizarre to think that he will never know how the blond’s story ended; he would leave now and never see him again, and never know if he made it back to Grudorin.

But then Miko and Reno and Aki would never know if their friend survived beyond the Wall.

Tomoya turned swiftly and stalked back into the inn. He made straight for the stairs, not even looking at the room full of people celebrating. Thankfully nobody asked where the ex-Guardian had lost his ‘husband’ and Tomoya climbed all the way up to his room without being harassed. Once there he blew out the candles and stripped naked, climbing onto his bed. He didn’t bother covering himself, though as the minutes ticked by he noticed it was getting more cold. He found it unbearable to think that this part of the Empire was the coldest part, and that the heat would just get worse from here.

He closed his eyes but despite his physical exhaustion, sleep would not come. Just like in his cell, he found himself plagued by things he had done wrong in his life. He saw his parents laying dead in that house, he saw Hiroa, Miko, and now a new face with big green eyes was added to the list. Tomoya sighed. The celebrations downstairs continued, and showed no signs of stopping. People were singing in the streets, yelling. The ruckus was unbelievable, but so much better than the hollow silence of his cell at the Wall.

Suddenly Tomoya jerked up and stalked to his window, compelled by something. _I have to see,_ he told himself, and peered over the ledge. People were still milling around in the street, but there was no golden head among them. Ivo was gone. Tomoya exhaled, not knowing if he was relieved or disappointed. He climbed back onto his bed and laid on his back, looking up at the ceiling. _Taiyoo,_ he murmured the goddess’ name, closing his eyes, _please guide him home._

**That same night, halfway across the world.**

**The _Liefhe,_ Somewhere on the Albe Sea.**

****

The sea was calm tonight, and for that the King Sef Ammon was grateful. He had never been much of a sailor and didn’t see the point in leaving his beautiful paradise of Voubrenia, the happiest kingdom on Earth. But this was an exception, and honestly the man was growing tired and weary of the constant sway of the ship.

At least his cabin was to his taste; he had a large four poster bed attached specifically to the floor so that it would not knock about when he slept, and there were dark golden curtains around it, allowing Sef extra privacy if he pulled them around his bed. There were identical curtains hanging by the square windows looking out at the night sea, illuminated partly silver by the moon, but obscured ever so often by clouds drifting across it. Beauralt was a cold country – not as cold as the North Islands, Sef was told, but cold compared to the breezy warmth of the eternal Voubren summer. So there was a fireplace by the bed, cackling away happily now and filling the room with a golden flickering light and a welcome warmth.

One of the walls was fitted with shelves that held books upon books, most of them about astrology which was Sef’s newest obsession. Models of the ships that Sef had meticulously carved out of wood and painted himself were situated around the room; making them had been his previous obsession, before the stars. There were also other decorations and artefacts that Sef’s highest esteemed captains had brought him as gifts from around the world; skulls of bizarre animals from the yet practically undiscovered shadow kingdoms, a gorgeous headdress of colourful, exotic flowers and feathers from the mysterious land of Atavya, beautifully painted fans from Beauralt that hung on the walls, contrasted by the equally stunning albeit more rough-edged and heavy axes from the North Islands that hung alongside them. However the whole room was full of touches of Voubrenia in the gold finishing touches and the silky red sheets on Sef’s bed and the intricately carved wooden chests full of manuscripts. It felt almost like home here, despite the howling of the wind and the cold just outside the windows.

Sef’s discomfort was worth what he had come here for though. Lord Protector Lysander Harkness was worth the dreary weather, and the sea-sickness, and the boredom that had befallen Sef despite the fact that his ‘siege’ of Wildeshell had began. It would all be worth it when Sef returned to his palace in Voubrenia with his husband at his side.

The man sighed like a love-stricken child and turned onto his side on the bed. He felt it was too big for him alone and his dark hand reached across the covers to touch one of the plush pillows. He imagined a man laying next to him – a man of mystery, for Sef didn’t know what Lysander looked like, only that he was one of the bravest, most intelligent men in Beauralt. He had single-handedly organised the infamous Siege of Berness; a stronghold that the Northmen had taken over one season. Despite the snow and the plummeting temperatures, Lysander, who had been only sixteen at the time, held out the Northmen and starved them out through the winter, forcing them to eventually flee and return the fortress to the Beaus. Sef had heard of his when he himself was seventeen, and immediately became smitten with the Lord Protector. It was customary for men in Voubrenia to marry other men, and the King was expected to marry a _powerful_ man who was honourable enough to sit alongside him. And Sef had, with the blessing of his people, chosen Lysander. He had turned twenty when he decided it, but his father’s death and his ascension as King meant that only now, when Sef had finally corroborated his throne, was he able to properly court Lysander. It was proving harder than Sef thought – nobody before had been able to resist his charm and yet the Lord was proving especially stubborn.

“Soon,” he murmured to himself and pulled his hand back from the pillow, rolling back onto his back and folding his arms under his head, glaring up grumpily at the canopy over his head. It would have been an amusing sight if anyone was there to witness it – King Sef, dressed in a golden and amber doublet, boots still on, straight black hair spread on the pillow, dark brown eyes glaring, thick brows furrowed, muscular arms folded underneath his head, pouting because he was being rejected.

A soft knock sounded on the cabin door, followed by an even softer, “ _My Lord?”_

 “Come in,” Sef called, not bothering to move. The door across the lusciously furnished cabin opened and Sef’s temporary door-boy on the _Liefhe_ scuttled in - he was a little, frightened thing whose name Sef hadn’t bothered learning, “What do you want?” the King asked in a bored tone, a little irritated that this boy was interrupting him fantasising about Lysander.

“S-Sorry to bother you, your h-highness,” the mate stuttered and bowed down so low his nose almost touched the floor. The King closed his eyes, and settled more comfortably against the pillows, “Your s-sister is here to see you.”

Sef’s eyes snapped open and he sat up, his mood souring immediately. He was tempted – oh so tempted – to make her wait until morning, to be spiteful, but he was a King and an adult, and his parents – Doede rest their souls – would have been disappointed to see him still fighting his sister. The King fought a groan,

“Let her in,” he said, and the door-boy hurried out quickly, not wanting to be in the King’s presence for longer than necessary. Sef could be a dangerous and frightening man when he wanted to, and he was definitely intimidating.

Moments later the door was opened with more force than necessary and Beheret Ammon stormed in, furious as always. Sef’s twin, older by a mere few minutes, had always held it against him that their father’s throne went to him, and not to her, and made his life miserable for him. Right now she was still dressed in her clothing from the day, an amber cloak around her shoulders and golden jewellery around her neck, upper arms and circling her hair full of tiny, long black braids that fell to her waist. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, claw-like fingernails digging into her skin.

“Brother,” she said coldly.

“Net,” Sef replied in a bored tone, resting his chin in his hand, “What do you want?”

“The necromancers are predicting another storm,” she hissed. Sef blinked at her and didn’t respond. She glared at him, “ _Sef.”_

“What do you want me to do?!” the King snapped, throwing his arms up. He was tired of fighting with his sister, he was tired of having her on _his_ ship, “I can’t control the weather!”

“I know what you _can_ do,” Net hissed and approached the bed threateningly. Her face was as dark, sharp and strong as Sef’s and it was like looking in the mirror, “Stop this foolish escapade and make the ships return _home.”_

“That won’t happen, Net, and you know it.”

Beheret let out a frustrated cry, like a wild fury. She had always been unstable and when she turned around and grabbed one of the skulls off the shelf, Sef knew to duck. When she hurled it at him it barely missed his head and crashed into the logs in the fire-place. Embers spilled all over the floor.

“You’re ruining my carpet, you bitch,” Sef snapped at her.

“I’m _tired_ of this, Sef!” Beheret raged, pacing the room and clasping her cloak about her shoulders. The ship swayed, almost as if it were reacting to her anger, “You forced us all to come here and freeze in these hellish waters-“

“I never made _you_ come here,” Sef said, “you decided this on your own, so don’t blame me that you’re miserable now.”

“Don’t you see?!” Net laughed maniacally, making Sef flinch. They had never been close, even as children, their relationship always riddled by Net’s jealousy over the close relationship of Sef and their father, and the fact that she was always considered inferior, “That Lord of yours doesn’t want you, Sef! How many times had he sent you rejection letters already?!”

Sef’s heart clenched and pangs of pain went through him, “Watch your mouth, Beheret,” he hissed, “or I’ll have you thrown overboard. Don’t forget you are speaking to a King.”

Beheret’s almond-shaped eyes, the same ones Sef had, narrowed, “Of course, _my King,”_ her voice dripped with resentment, “but you are simply wasting time. If by the time spring comes around that Lord hasn’t broken, you _will_ marry me. That is the tradition.”

A shudder of disgust went through Sef. Even though the tradition of royals marrying their siblings was a dying one, it still lingered in Voubrenia and Net was right; if Lysander continued to deny Sef and he didn’t find another powerful man to marry before his twenty sixth spring, he would be forced to marry his sister, the most powerful woman in Voubrenia, and the second best thing. It was a notion he wholeheartedly despised. The thought of marrying his sister, of _bedding_ her, filled him with nausea worse than sea-sickness. In his heart he thought it wrong.

“I will burn Beauralt to the ground if that is what it takes for me to have him,” he said icily. Net smiled at her brother’s anger; she knew Lysander would never give in. The Beaus thought the Voubren sinners and animals – they rejected their ideas of marriage between the same sexes, and of marriage between siblings, and they would undoubtedly kill one of their Lord Protectors before they allowed for him to marry a Voubren man. Net was confident that she would be the Queen of Voubrenia, one way or another.

Seeing the woman smile made Sef’s blood boil, “Leave.”

Beheret reached into her cloak and threw a creamy envelop carelessly at Sef’s feet. The man’s heart started pounding, “This came for you an hour ago. It’s from your ‘fiancée’” Net mocked him, “another letter telling you he hates you, undoubtedly,” she smirked, bowed and walked out of the room before Sef could throw something back at her.

But the King didn’t fume as he usually did after his sister’s visits, because the letter subdued him. He picked it up from the floor gingerly, upset that Beheret had thrown it so carelessly. He then climbed back onto his bed, heart throbbing insistently. Hope rose in his chest and he couldn’t keep a smile off his lips – Net was wrong, this time the letter would be one of love, like the ones Sef sent. Excitement got the better of the King and he ripped the envelope open with his fingers, careful not to crumble the letter inside as he eagerly unfolded it. It was written on pale paper, in the soft scrawl of Lysander, and it was painfully short. _It’s fine,_ Sef told himself, _He is not a man of many words_. He greedily drank the contents in, positive that this time it would be different, but his smile slowly melted from his lips.

_Your Majesty,_

_Know that this letter is being sent as you are forcing my hand. Your declaration of war on my people and your attacks on my villages are a cruel crime I cannot forgive. As I have told you before, your desires are a sin in the eyes of God, and you are delusional if you believe I will ever be able to marry you, especially after recent events. I implore you to leave our waters and return to your kingdom, because your efforts here are futile._

_With respects,_

_Lysander Harkness, Lord Protector of Wildeshell._

Sef stared at the letter and his hands began to tremble until the words blurred. It wasn’t until a tear fell onto the paper and smudged the word _crime_ that Sef realised he was crying. It felt like the whole ship could heart his heart breaking in two. He had really thought...he had _hoped..._ that this time, that _maybe_ this time it would be different. And yet Sef was met with bitter disappointment as once more what Lysander had told him before was reiterated – it was clear the Lord despised Sef, and the King didn’t know what to do. He wanted to destroy things, and yet he knew it would only make Lysander hate him more. _Why_ had he burned those villages?! Yes, he had been furious, but that was no excuse...he wiped his eyes furiously.

“ _Fuck!”_ he yelled and ripped the letter in half. A rage overtook him and before he realised what was happening the letter was nothing but shreds in front of him and he was breathing hard. He felt helpless. Slowly but surely his biggest fear of having to marry his sister, _his own blood,_ and of having to return home without somebody to truly love, was creeping up on him. Sef was running out of time and he was terrified. He was also out of options; he was beginning to see that continuing the destruction on the villages would only worsen his situation. Besides, he didn’t find pleasure in harming innocent people. He only wanted Lysander to give him a chance, he just wanted to _see_ him...

There was only one thing to do. Sef had the manpower to, the army, the ships, the weapons. Lysander might have been strong, but Wildeshell was weak.

“Door-boy!” Sef bellowed and the boy hurried in like a scared kitty, head bowed.

“Y-Yes sire?” he squeaked.

“Get me the scribe, and our best rider.”

The door-boy looked up, eyes wide like a scared deer, “N-Now my lord?” he stuttered. Sef glared at him and the boy quickly added; “They’re all sleeping my lord.”

“Well _wake them,”_ Sef seethed. He wanted to hit something, “I have to send an urgent letter to the Lord Protector before dawn.”

The door-boy was not going to argue. He bowed pathetically low, “A-As you wish my lord!” and then he was gone, slamming the door shut behind him. It echoed through the room.

The wind outside picked up, squeezing in through the crevices in the wood of the ship and howling in Sef’s room. The King stood from his bed and wrapped a cloak around his shoulders, approaching the window. He saw dark sea, the sky brimming with storm clouds. The only indication of where the shore of Wildeshell started were distant, distant lights from villages that Sef had not yet burned, and that he would not burn any longer. He blinked away tears that insistently pushed themselves into his eyes. Lysander _would_ be his, whether he liked it or not.


	6. A Simple Tale of Loneliness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say I'm so overwhelmed with your comments <3 they're all so lovely thank you guys so much for reading xx

**Almost dawn, the following day. Summer, 212CE**

**Shariba, Arid.**

**The Shairin Empire.**

****

Ivo’s eyes scanned the street once more. Finally, after what seemed like hours, Shariba was slowly being lulled to sleep. Despite the dark sky Ivo knew dawn was fast-approaching; he had slept on the streets long enough to know what time it was simply by the colour of the sky, and now he felt relieved that drunken stranglers were either being pulled into brothels or were stumbling home. Shariba was emptying and quieting for a few short hours, the way it did every night. How many days had Ivo spent in this city? He didn’t know, and at this point all of the towns he had been in had blurred into one.

 _That goddamned Mairi,_ he thought bitterly as he slid into the courtyard of the free house that he had been in earlier and that had been bustling with life all night. Now it was finally silent and dark. It was one of the only places in Shariba where there was greenery, and it took form in a single tree in the centre of the stony courtyard, bizarre and hunched over with light green, pointy leaves, it was disappointing after the lush forests of Dukkosha. The public house itself was majestic, with a golden domed roof and arched entrances leading within. But Ivo was not interested in the building; thanks to his ‘husband’ whose name he had not learned, he failed to steal any money to afford a room. So now he ran across the shadowy yard and made for the camel enclosure in the far west corner. He ducked inside, heart pounding and praying to mother nature that nobody had seen him.

The stench of camels hit his nostrils and Ivo cringed. He couldn’t remember the last time he bathed, but the enclosure smelled worse than him. It was large, with camels freely laying around, loosely tied to the stone pillars that kept up the roof. There were no walls and it was chilly here, but dry, with hay and sand covering the floor. It would be better than sleeping outside.

“Move over, buddy,” Ivo picked a corner that faced a wooden wall, and patted one of the camels on the side. The animal looked down at him through its thick eyelashes and seemed all-together unimpressed, chewing on some oats from a bucket in front of it. The late-night snacker didn’t seem interested in sleeping, but Ivo was exhausted. He sat down heavily on the hay and then collapsed sideways, curling in on himself and pulling his short, tattered cloak around his shoulders. He stared miserably at the legs of the camel beside him and tried to breathe through his mouth. Somewhere near him a camel shat with a wet, splattering sound, intensifying the reek. “ _Fuck,”_ Ivo huffed and pulled his cloak over his face. This was definitely one of the worst places he had ever slept in.

The boy was only seventeen springs old, and he was all alone and afraid. Earlier he had hoped that he might be able to steal from the big man, and perhaps even share his bed. Nothing sounded more heavenly to the boy now than a warm body to press himself up against. But that Mairi had ruined all of it. Ivo knew he was Mairi because of his appearance, and had been surprised when the man had spoken Kasha; over his time in the Empire Ivo had mostly communicated through gestures since he could speak barely a few words in Airyan. To hear his native language had felt comforting, but the speaker himself had been an arsehole.

 _Whatever,_ Ivo thought bitterly, trying not to feel disappointment at how dismissive the Mairi had been of him, and how unkind, _I will never see him again._ The boy closed his eyes and thought of home, of one of the two things that managed to relax him. He thought of Vars, the village he had grown up and lived in all his life before he had been abducted. The lush green summer fields filled with sunflowers and daisies, the streams happily trickling by and sparkling in the sunshine. He remembered the feeling of snow between his fingers as he would sink his hands into it when it freshly fell in the winter. He remembered the laughter of the village people during celebrations, the way they would hold hands and spin together in a circle around a burning fire. When he opened his eyes and looked at the enclosure he could still hear the echo of that laughter. For years now the Odelians had been stealing children who had wandered off, but when Ivo went with that boy – a stupid, stupid boy with a big cock whose name Ivo could not remember – to the woods to get away for just a moment of pleasure, he didn’t think he would end up like those missing children that his parents scared him about when he was young. Ivo had never been much of a fast runner, but that other boy had been. Half-naked he had sprinted through the trees, the sunrays breaking through the leaves painting patterns on his back. He escaped, but Ivo didn’t.

“Bastard,” he gritted between his teeth now, tears pooling in his eyes. He knew, realistically, that it hadn’t been the boy’s fault that the Odelians had ventured for a ‘hunt’ that afternoon, and that if they had both been kidnapped it wouldn’t have changed a thing, but Ivo was known for holding grudges. It seemed terribly unfair that that boy got to return home and Ivo was _still_ here, after months and months, poor and alone and afraid.

He didn’t want to think about his home anymore, so he turned to the other thing that made him relax; sexual release. The Dukkosh were very free, even freer than the Voubren, and loved intercourse, not believing in constructs such as marriage or monogamy. And yet even to their standards, Ivo was a sexual deviant. He loved sex, and could do it with practically anybody, old or young, man or woman, and he liked to do it often, otherwise he’d feel uncomfortable, an invisible itch under his skin. The soft, curvy body of a woman was good, a rough, hard pounding from a man was better. Ivo was never fully satisfied if he had neither, but there was little else he could do now since that damned Mairi had ruined his chances of sharing someone’s bed. Tomorrow Ivo would find someone, perhaps a merchant who would be willing to take Ivo back the way he came since he had apparently been going the wrong way. For now he would have to manage.

He slid a hand into his loose trousers. He wasn’t wearing any underwear since he was unable to steal any, and he couldn’t help but feel a little disgusted at having to do this surrounded by animals, but there was no other way he’d be able to sleep. As he stroked himself, jaw clenched. For a long time now, Ivo accepted that he was unlike everybody else. He couldn’t ignore the urges when they came, and would be unable to focus on anything until he climaxed. He tried to blank his head and finish quickly, pressing his pale forehead against the hay. It pricked at his sunburnt skin but he ignored it, brows furrowed and breath coming out fast as he sped up his movements. _Come on, come on..._ he told himself. A little moan slipped out of his mouth and his free hand grasped at the hay at his side. He panted, and his mind reverted to the Mairi from before on its own accord. Ivo felt a dislike towards the man and the way he had treated him like an inferior, but he could not ignore his good looks, and he imagined them now; the scraped back long black hair that Ivo wanted to free and mess up, those broad shoulders and large, calloused hands, the controlled anger in his dark eyes. Ivo wished he had made a proper move on him before they parted; seducing him into a bed would have been a great accomplishment.

With a grunt, Ivo spilled over his hand. He took a second to catch his breath and then sat up, wiping his hand on the hay. He felt bone-tired now, the tension having left his body. However unlike when he slept with someone, Ivo felt empty after his climax. He looked around the enclosure and remembered where he was. The crushing loneliness of his situation fell on his shoulders.

Outside birds began to chirp. Ivo burst into tears, startling the camel next to him. The boy pressed his back against one of the pillars, and pulled his knees to his chest in order to rest his forehead against them, hands gripping his hair as he cried. He felt the wet, soft nuzzle of the camel against his hand but he didn’t react.

How was he supposed to return home? He had thought he was at least partway to Cheri by now, and yet...he sniffled and tears dripped down his cheeks and off his chin, mixing with snot. He had no money, no map, he didn’t speak the language. The chances of him ever returning were slim, and even then it would probably be years before he made it back to Grudorin. Would his parents still be alive? 

Ivo had thought many times that perhaps this was punishment from Eriona, mother nature. Perhaps that day when he was kidnapped he had angered her by sleeping with that boy in the forest. Maybe she was punishing him because he had no self-restraint, but what could Ivo do?

He felt hopeless, and knew he would not be sleeping tonight despite everything. Sleeping alone was very, very hard for him.

“Sorry, buddy,” Ivo sniffled and looked at the camel and struggled to his feet. He petted the animal gently before slipping out of the enclosure. The air had cooled outside somewhat, and the sky was slowly lightening, the stars fading away. Ivo sighed and looked around the courtyard. He had to pick a direction and start walking. The prospect of that was dreary.

A drunk man stumbled out of one of the brothels, yelling something and startling Ivo. The boy hugged himself and watched as a pretty, long-haired and completely naked woman stuck her upper-body out of one of the third floor windows and threw the man’s shoes at his head aggressively, screaming something back at him. Ivo didn’t understand, but her shout echoed through the deserted street. The boy sniffled. _Crying isn’t going to get you home,_ he told himself.

He took two steps towards the street when movement caught his eye and he turned his head. In the doorway of the free house stood a tiny old woman, wrinkled, with her head wrapped in a black shawl. At first Ivo thought she was a ghoul, and his heart started to pound, but then the woman smile and beckoned Ivo towards her with a crooked finger. The boy swallowed, but something compelled him to go to her.

When he got close enough she croaked something.

“I don’t understand your language,” Ivo said. She pointed to the doorstep of the house and then disappeared down the dark hallway. Ivo hesitated and wrapped his cloak around himself. Ultimately he decided to follow the woman’s instructions, and he perched himself on the doorstep, looking out at the courtyard. A man exited from the other side of the house and crossed towards the camel enclosure with a bucket. Ivo followed him with his eyes.

The wrinkled hand holding the piece of bread came out of nowhere, and Ivo yelped and fell sideways off the step, hitting his thin hip painfully against the ground. He groaned and looked up to see that the old woman had returned, and was holding a clay flagon and a small loaf of bread. She seemed amused by Ivo’s fear, but held the food out to him encouragingly. The boy swallowed and sat up.

“Are you a witch?” he asked. The woman shook the food at him, still smiling. Ivo took it gingerly from her hands, “Thank you.”

She sat down on the step and laid her hands on her colourful skirts, watching Ivo insistently. He sat up and crossed his legs under him. Something about her reminded Ivo of his late grandmother, and he didn’t feel awkward eating in front of her. He didn’t realise how thirsty he was until he lifted the flagon to his mouth. Warm goats milk poured down his throat, quenching the ache. When he sunk his teeth into the charred bread he found it still hot, and wonderfully soft. He ate quickly, filling his mostly empty stomach.

When he finished, wiping the milk from around his mouth on the edge of his cloak, the sky was growing pink on the horizon. He handed the flagon back to the woman.

“Thank you,” he said again. She laid the flagon at her side and reached into the folds of her dress, before producing a tangerine. Ivo watched as she peeled it, the orange peels falling onto the sandy ground in front of her. His mouth watered. Without a word, she began to separate the segments. She passed one to Ivo and he put it in his mouth, delighted at how sweet the fruit was. He smiled at her, and she put the next segment in her own mouth, chewing thoughtfully with her gums. The next piece went to Ivo. They finished the tangerine in silence, as life slowly seeped back into Shariba.

“Raghana.”

Ivo looked up to see the Mairi from before standing in the doorway behind the woman, fully dressed and looking puzzled. Seeing him again came as a shock. The woman herself didn’t move, but Ivo’s heart started to pound. _It’s you,_ he wanted to blurt, and instead clenched his jaw shut. On his part, Tomoya was just confused as to why the thief from the night before and the kind old lady were sitting together outside at dawn, eating tangerines.

But he wasn’t going to get a response, because Raghana stood up, surprisingly gracefully for an old woman, inclined her head at Ivo and said only, “Good journey to you,” to Tomoya, before squeezing past him and fading into the shadowy corridors of the free house.

Tomoya turned to Ivo, but he didn’t feel angry anymore after spending the night alone. Honestly a part of him was relieved that the boy was alright, “I hope you weren’t trying to rob her.”

Ivo rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest defensively, “We were eating breakfast.”

“Right,” once again, Tomoya wanted to say more, but couldn’t find the right words. He focused instead on the burnt skin on the boy’s cheeks and tip of his nose, “You should get ointment for that.”

“Don’t mother me.”

Tomoya cleared his throat. This was awkward, “Right,” he shifted the sack on his shoulder and stepped past Ivo. He started heading for the street, feeling his own cheeks burn, when-

“Wait!” Ivo blurted. For some reason he couldn’t let this man walk away again. Seeing a familiar face had been so heartening, and Ivo didn’t want to be alone again. He couldn’t help being surprised, though pleased, when the Mairi listened to him, half-turning towards him with an expectant look on his face. Ivo swallowed, “Where are you going?” he demanded, confident this time. The man blinked.

“Uh...,” Tomoya didn’t know whether betraying his plans to this criminal was a good idea, though re-evaluating Ivo with a clear mind made it easy to see that physically the lithe boy didn’t pose a threat to him, “Right now I’m heading to Zafaran. Then Cheri.” Tomoya relented.

“That’s...that’s very interesting, because actually I’m going to Zafaran too.”

Tomoya raised an eyebrow, “...really? That’s fascinating.”

Ivo glared at him, “I _am,”_ he said, “and...so...I was thinking. Perhaps you’d like to join together. It’d be safer.”

Tomoya snorted, “You have little to offer.”

Ivo’s jaw clenched, “What ship are you getting on?”

Tomoya blinked, “Excuse me?”

“You’re going to Cheri,” Ivo shrugged, “the Empire’s biggest port is in Cheri. So what ship are you getting on?”

“You think you’re smart, don’t you?”

“Just observant,” Ivo shrugged and uncrossed his arms, “Think about this. You don’t like me, and I’m not particularly fond of you either, but I know the Shairin Empire better than you do. I’ll be your...guide.”

“And I’ll be your muscle?” Tomoya guessed unenthusiastically.

“Maybe. You also have a pocket full of gold.”

Tomoya shook his head, “Listen, I don’t need baggage from you, and honestly you seem a bit useless and you’re a nuisance.”

Ivo went as red as his sun-burn, “Y-You have no manners!” he spluttered, “you’re a fucking idiot so you need someone with at least _half_ a brain.”

“Half a brain; you said it not me.”

Ivo exhaled. He _had_ to win this man over, and somehow he knew he would be unable to do so with sex. He’d have to try harder with him than with anyone else, “What’s your name?”

Now it was Tomoya’s turn to roll his eyes, “Tomoya Itoe, not that it will help you in any-“

“So you’re a runaway then?” Ivo asked casually. Tomoya tensed, grip tightening on his bag. Arguing with Ivo, he had almost forgotten..., “The only Mairi that come to Shairin are exiles, so you probably committed a crime. What did you do, kill someone? You’re as much of a criminal as me.”

Tomoya’s eyes narrowed, “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 _Shit._ Getting Tomoya angry was not the aim here, “Right,” Ivo swallowed, “My point is, you’re running towards somewhere, right? So...what about Grudorin?”

Tomoya snorted, “Why would I want to go there?”

“Because it’s paradise!” Ivo blurted defensively, “In the summer it’s warm and beautiful and in the winter you can sit by the hearth and watch the snow fall! Everybody’s happy there-“

“Oh yeah, with all the kidnapping-“

“Shut up! I mean it,” Ivo exhaled and looked at the floor, “It’s my home, and it’s better than here, it’s better than anywhere else in the world.” Tomoya stared at him...the boy looked defeated, “Everyone farms and shares, everyone is happy.” The boy’s eyes snapped to Tomoya, “and don’t worry, nobody would kidnap you anyway.”

Tomoya had to admit the picture Ivo painted _did_ sound nice, but before he could say anything Ivo perked up, “Besides!” he grinned, “My father is the chief of our village. If you get me back safely he will give you a pretty little cottage, free of charge.”

Tomoya blinked, “Really?”

The first sunrays touched the roof of the free house. Suddenly there was a plan of action, and Tomoya felt like he was no longer wandering around in mist. Ivo – as irritating as he was – had offered him a goal, something to work towards, and the heavy feeling of helplessness, and perhaps loneliness too, lifted off Tomoya’s chest. He could start anew, a completely different life in a beautiful country.

“Fine.”

Ivo slumped in relief, heart flipping in his chest. He quickly straightened up, “Great!”

Tomoya was already regretting his decision, “I have enough money to get us some camels to Zafaran, but from there we’ll have to walk.”

“Let’s just steal them,” Ivo shrugged.

“ _No,”_ Tomoya gave him a pointed look, “No stealing. I like my head on my shoulders.”

“Fine,” Ivo sighed, “Since you’re paying.”

“By the way, you stink,” Tomoya said and started walking towards the enclosure.

**Later that Morning, late autumn.**

**Cervantes, Adanard, Beavnird.**

**The North Islands.**

****

Callian’s breath came out harsh as he climbed the slope of one of the Dwen mountains, Arta. The muscles in his legs burned and the icy morning air prickled his lungs even as sweat dripped from his brow.

“Damn,” he leaned against the stony face of the mountain and looked out at the trees jutting out in front of him; he was not high up and if he jumped he’d be able to reach the higher branches. Not that he’d ever do it, “I need to work on my stamina,” the boy wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his shirt. It was woollen, and a dark mossy green that went darker where the sweat was absorbed. Callian sighed and closed his eyes, enjoying the clear mountain air. When he opened his eyes he could see smoke curling into the sky from far away; Cervantes way finally waking up, hours after him.

Something soft nuzzled Cal’s thigh and he looked down to see Bris, one of his spirit guardians. The wildcat was the only female in Cal’s peculiar four creature pack, and her deep black fur always appeared to shimmer with blue. Now her bright green eyes were looking up at Cal insistently.

“I know, I know,” he reached down and she nuzzled his freckly, pale knuckles, “Thankyou for reminding me.”

Cal took a few more steps up the mountain, Bris firmly just behind him while the other spirit guardians hunted in the woods. She was over-protective, always ensuring Callian wasn’t alone. The boy hummed an off-key tune under his breath as he went around a large rock that had not been there last month, meaning it must have been knocked down from the top of the mountain. He slid around it, and Bris did the same but with more grace.

“Perfect!” Callian couldn’t help but smile when his eyes landed on the spurts of purple lavender just behind the rock. It was the last bunch leftover from summer, and Cal had seen it in his dream the previous night. It would be critical to make medicine and salves throughout the winter and Cal was ecstatic he had managed to find some so out-of-season. Rather, Bris had found them for him, “Good girl,” Cal knelt on the ground and rubbed Bris behind her ears. The cat purred in pleasure.

He pulled a little jar from the pocket of his hooded cloak and carefully pulled the lavender from the hardened ground, roots and all. He whispered prayers of thanks to Sere for the land and placed the flowers gently in his jar, putting it back into one of the many pockets that lined the inside of his cloak. He stood and wiped his hands on his brown leggings and looked at Bris proudly.

“Well, today was a success.”

She inclined her head ever so. Cal looked out past the bare trees around them. Cervantes was on a huge hill, and as it sloped down below the druid could see silver ribbons of rivers weaving through the countryside. The wind picked up, nipping at him. He exhaled, and not for the first time wondered what would happen if he just continued climbing and never came back. Would anybody miss him? Would anybody even notice...”

A sharp pain in Cal’s hand jerked him out of his dark thoughts and he looked down to see Bris glaring up at him. She sometimes was like a mother, reprimanding Cal.

“Ouch,” Callian cradled his hand to his chest; it wasn’t bleeding, it was just a little red, “Don’t bite me, I know, I know.”

The two started to descend down the mountain. The chilly air bit at Cal’s exposed hands and face, and he wondered if it was time to bring the winter furs out. It was already snowing further up North in Avon and Dumbria and undoubtedly Adanard would be hit soon too.

Cal paid attention as he made his way down, ensuring he did not slip. Little rocks slid from beneath his boots and tumbled further down but thankfully it wasn’t a very long journey and much easier than going up, so Cal and Bris soon found themselves back on the floor of the forest. The trees were bare and dark, with crows perched on the higher branches, allowing for Cal to glimpse his village in the distance. He wanted to get back to his hut and begin preparations for the wedding that night, and maybe finish the book he was reading.

The druid raised his hand to his mouth and slid two fingers inside, curling them. His whistle echoed through the forest and instantly two wildcats shot between the trees, as if they had teleported. They were both big and dangerous – not to Cal of course – but the amber-furred Ogma was the biggest in the pack, though he always stuck behind Airmid, who although slimmer was the Alpha of the pack.

“There you are,” Cal smiled as the two trotted up to him. Ogma’s nuzzle was wet with blood; he was always a little clumsy when he hunted. Airmid was stoic and proud as always, fur a pale brown, and he had licked himself clean, “Let’s go.”

The pack headed towards the village, picking their way through the trees. Cal chatted excitedly to his guardians about the lavender, and about the things he would make with it. The cats’ ears twitched with interest and they’d look up at their druid once in a while, or rub against his legs to remind him that they were listening. Callian had very little friends in the village, but at least he had his guardians.

Very soon trees gave way to huts and Cal weaved through the bonfires burning outside. People called out cheerful hellos to him, and he replied timidly, not talking now that he was among humans. He was a shy and awkward young man, and feeling like an outsider in the village didn’t really help, no matter how friendly people were. Callian was happy when he found himself in the comfort of his own hut again.

He shut the door behind him and sighed, leaning against it. Why did he get so anxious around the villagers? He had known them for years, and was aspiring to be their Head Druid, and yet...

“I’m a fool,” Cal mumbled to himself.

His hut hadn’t changed much over the years; the fireplace was cold and dead, and the one room inside was cold. The bed was done up, a patchwork quilt that Cal had knitted himself thrown over top. There were furs on the floor, and the stone walls were covered with shelves upon shelves of leather-bound books and manuscripts. Dried flowers and herbs hung from the ceiling and the table was littered with papers, with pools of candle-wax having solidified on the wood from Cal’s last night’s late reading.

Ogma headed straight for Cal’s bed.

“Hey!” the druid protested, just as Airmid nipped him on the tail. Ogma squeaked. Despite his fearsome appearance, he was a big softie, “No dirty paws on the bed,” Cal reminded him, “and clean your mouth, you little pig.”

Ogma curled on the floor and obediently began to lick himself clean. Meanwhile Bris headed for the pile of wood arranged next to the fireplace; she grabbed a log in her mouth and placed it in the hearth. She repeated this several times and Cal smiled, going up to the table and moving his papers aside.

“Looks like it’s time for breakfast,” he said to himself. Airmid was watching him carefully, eyes golden and intelligent. Bris finished carefully laying down the wood and Cal knelt by the fireplace, touching the logs with his finger-tips. He smiled when he saw flames shyly flick up from the embers of last night’s fire. Cal was no witch; he could not make things out of nothing, or read people’s thoughts or manipulate them. But he could gently nudge nature, and encourage it to sway his way. If there were embers, chances were they were happy to come alight again for Callian.

“Alright,” Cal said softly, “Let’s get this lavender.”

He pulled the jar out and put it in a little alcove next to the fireplace where he kept all of his ingredients. He looked at his impressive collection; there were bunches of garlic and garlands of catnip, dried sage and thyme, preserved summer berries and a basket of late autumn apples, bunches of rosemary and sunflowers. Callian wanted to be prepared and have everything he needed for anything required of him.

He knew the painful truth; if he didn’t succeed Maganna in becoming the Head Druid there would be no place for him in Cervantes. He was a druid, and there was nothing else he was good at; he was too weak to fight in battles or go on raids, he could bear no children, and although he was good with animals, the Dreiyards were not farmers. If Orena won over him, he would leave Cervantes, he had already decided this. Perhaps he would go travelling like his best and only friend Aeth, who was a bard. Though Cal couldn’t sing or play any instrument, and he was much too shy to entertain a crowd...

 _No,_ he told himself firmly, looking at the lavender, _I can do this._

He turned around and his eyes narrowed.

“Ogma!” he yelled at the big cat who was snoozing on his quilt, “Off the bed!”

“What’s all this screaming about, then?”

Callian whirled around, heart pounding, and saw the huge figure of Roan Gallobhair in his doorway. The warrior had to duck his head so he didn’t hit it on the frame, and was grinning innocently at the redheaded druid. Callian felt irritation spark off his skin. His and Roan’s feud, the one that officially began on the day Cal was initiated as a mage, was still on-going, at least on Cal’s part. The son of the Chieftain was _everything_ Cal despised in the Dreiyard culture, and just in humanity in general. Roan was _huge,_ like some kind of rock, towering over Callian dramatically, his shoulders broad and bulking with muscle, his biceps practically the size of Callian’s thighs. His hands were like cauldrons, deadly, able to rip apart men on the battlefield. Despite his size, or perhaps adding to it, Roan was regarded as one of the most handsome men in the village, and he kept his blond hair long and halfway tied up most of the time, with a charming scruff always on his chiselled jaw. The man also seemed to not feel the cold, walking around shirtless even in the dead of winter. He was the best warrior in the village, a point of endless pride for his father, and in the field he went berserk. So, in conclusion, he was the complete opposite of the lanky, reserved and studious Callian, and the fact that he looked the way he did and was adored by all the villagers just made Cal despise him more.

However, Roan had fallen completely and hopelessly in love with Callian. There was something about the feisty redhead that made his heart threaten to pound out of his chest, and the druid knew about it –hells, the whole of Cervantes knew about it, though Cal was the only one who didn’t believe a word of it.

“ _Gallobhair,”_ Cal growled, hands automatically clenching into fists.

“Aw, come on!” the warrior stepped into Cal’s hut, shit-eating grin still in place, “Aren’t you happy to see me? I’ve been raiding for a _week!”_

“I was praying for your boat to sink,” Callian snapped, which was, of course, a lie. Just then Bris picked herself up from where she and Airmid had been curled up by the fireplace and padded over to Roan.

“Hey there, big girl,” the warrior’s grin changed into a genuine, big smile and he knelt by the wildcat, dwarfing her with his huge stature. When he reached out she nuzzled his hand.

“Bris!” Cal yelled, making both of them flinch. Bris gave him a pointed look, “Come here, you traitor,” the druid hissed, fuming. For some reason despite his boiling hate for Roan, his guardians adored him. Reluctantly Bris gave Roan’s calloused hand a little lick and gracefully sauntered over to her owner, who glared at her.

“It’s not her fault she can’t resist my charms,” Roan teased, standing up. Cal could feel a headache coming on.

“Are you done?” he asked, “I’m busy.”

Roan pouted, “Does my wife not want to hear about my escapades and my bravery in battle?”

Cal flinched, “Don’t call me that!”

“You’re blushing,” Roan was pleased. Callian went even redder from him saying that.

“Shut up!” he spluttered, “Get out of my hut y-you...,” he couldn’t think of a word. Why out of all people had Roan chosen _him_ to pick on? Cal was sure he and his friends found it hilarious, this whole elaborate ‘love-act’ that Roan had been committing to ever since they turned old enough to understand attraction, but Callian found it exhausting. He felt like people were always watching him and whispering. But he wasn’t going to fall for it; he knew the moment he let his guard down he’d become the laughing stock of the village. Somebody like Roan would never genuinely like someone like Cal.

“You’re always so cold, it hurts me,” Roan sighed, “ _but,”_ he grinned again and reached into a pouch tied to his belt, “I’ve brought you a gift.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” Callian said venomously.

“Are you sure?” Roan asked, a little proud as he produced a little, delicate bottle of ink from the pouch. It looked tiny in his paw-like hand, and extremely fragile. Cal couldn’t help a flush of excitement that rushed through him and in seconds he was standing in front of the warrior.

“Is that-,” he reached for the vial, and then stopped himself, “Where did you get that?” his voice was trembling with emotion. He had wanted to transcribe some ancient works, but his last inkwell had ran out...

“Beauralt,” Roan shrugged, “I took it from a burning house just for you.”

He held it out to the druid. Cal hesitated. Roan’s gifts were poisoned, and yet the ink... _it won’t hurt anybody if I take it._ Cautiously Callian took it from the other boy’s hand, ensuring their skin didn’t touch. His heart pounded as he turned the vial in his hands; it was made of glass, and the angled edges reflected the light. The ink inside was as dark as night. It was perfect.

Cal was so pre-occupied with the gift that he didn’t realise that Roan had shifted closer until the man spoke again.

“Can I get a kiss in return?” Roan asked, voice softer, his breath ruffling Cal’s ginger fringe. The druid looked up at him and his heart seized in his chest, because Roan’s light blue eyes, the colour of the summer sky, seemed genuine, and they were so, so close. In moments like this Cal wondered if this whole thing truly was just a joke...

 _Of course it is,_ he reminded himself, angry for thinking otherwise. He stepped away from Roan, skin burning, “No,” he said, “Stop coming into my house.”

The druid turned away and stalked to his fireplace, stepping over Airmid and Bris who had been watching the interaction sleepily. The druid heaved an empty cauldron and shoved it onto the fire.

“Come on,” Roan seemed a little agitated now, “How long until you forgive me for that joke? It was _ages_ ago. Give me a chance-”

The wind outside did Callian a favour and slammed the door to his house open. Roan let out a barely audible sigh but when he spoke again his voice was back to normal, “The more you reject me, the more I want you,” he said and Cal could hear the smirk in his voice though he refused to turn around because his face was as red as a summer berry. He jumped when he felt the light touch of Roan’s fingertips against the small of his back, “I’ll see you tonight at the ceremony.”

Callian stood frozen by the fireplace until the door shut behind the warrior. Only then did he slump. Where Roan touched, despite there being layers of clothes, seemed to burn, and Cal’s skin felt hot. He reached behind himself and brushed his hand against it, chasing the feeling away, irritated that he had even felt something in the first place.

When he turned around all three of his wildcats were sitting in the middle of the room, looking at him expectantly.

“Don’t,” the boy snapped at them and grabbed a sheep-skin full of water, pouring it into the cauldron. He had to eat and then begin preparations for the wedding tonight. It was a rare occurrence that Dreiyards got married; when they reached an older age they tended to settle down with a person or two, but they were one of the free nations and didn’t like social restrictions that oppressed countries such as Beauralt, their favourite raiding ground. Still, if people genuinely loved each other and promised each other exclusivity, druids would conduct weddings. There hadn’t been a wedding in Cervantes in seven years, and tonight two twenty winter old warriors, Darwanna and Uliah, were going to be united, and Maganna wanted her two protégés to assist with the ceremony. The last wedding Cal had spent on the shore by the sea with the others, shivering, but now, since he was twenty winters old himself, he felt ready to be involved. After all Maganna would not be around forever to guide him.

The druid mentally listed off things he had to do; prepare the paint and the salt, dress in his robes, go to Uliah and burn sage in his house since it would be where the wedding night would take place, he also had to eat dinner, map out the weather for tonight-

Cal sighed and stared at the water in the cauldron, which was beginning to bubble, “You can stop looking at me like that now. He’s gone.”

Bris, Airmid and Ogma exchanged looks and reluctantly dragged their eyes away from their owner.

Night had fallen, and the Dreiyards of Cervantes were gathered on the shore of their village the way they had been on the druids’ initiation day, but there was none of the solemn silence that had echoed on that night. Instead there were fiddles being played, and drums being drummed, and huge pyres burned high into the night sky, illuminating the crowd gathered. The full moon hung against the onyx backdrop, its reflection shivering on the calm waves of the sea.

Callian stood in the water, calm, confident and stoic. His legs were submerged to his calves in the freezing sea and yet he didn’t even flinch. He respected nature now, and felt at peace with the water. He had been chosen by the waves and knew they would not hurt him. He barely even felt the cold, but that alarmed him somewhat. He didn’t want his magic to erase his feelings, like it had done with Maganna over the years.

Roan stood on the shore, next to his father and sisters, a little way away from the rest of the villagers. Wynna, the youngest of the three siblings and only seventeen winters old, kept turning to look into the crowd. Her pale green eyes sought out her newest love interest and she smiled at him sweetly, before turning to face the sea again, subconsciously touching the intricate braid in her hair to ensure it remained in place. A few moments later she turned again.

“Stop it,” she felt a sharp pinch on her arm from Feona, the oldest of the three. Where Wynna was pretty and delicate, with long golden hair, Feona was the opposite, her hair shorn close to her scalp on one side and shaggy on the other. Blue tattoos interlocked on her arms, and she strictly wore only trousers. She was getting irritated with Wynna not standing still. The youngest dropped her head, blushing.

Feona leaned over to her brother, “Pass the flask,” she whispered.

Roan bit back a smile and eased a leather flask from his pocket, passing it to his sister. She attempted to try to drink inconspicuously, but eventually opted to just take a hurried swig instead, shoving the flask into her pocket and hoping nobody saw. Normally Roan would join his sister in her antics, but right now he was too focused on staring at Cal.

When Roan first saw the boy when they were children, he barely spared him a second glance. Upon first look there was nothing particularly interesting about Callian Cinnéidie; yes, his hair was as orange as flames, but so were many of the other Dreiyards’. He was small and awkward and shy, and freckly _everywhere,_ and not very good-looking with his too-pale skin and thin lips and upturned nose; he looked somewhat like a fox. But he was fierce, and smart, and, as Ro had learnt, had a very sharp tongue on him. There was just something about making him blush as seeing sparks of anger in his eyes that made Roan’s heart beat fast. Though now it had evolved into something different – the warrior wanted the druid to smile at him the way he smiled at others. He was so interesting, and yet such an enigma to Roan, he was unlike anyone the blond had ever met and there was a part of Roan that just wanted to take him apart piece by piece and see him fall apart beneath his hands. Now, standing partly submerged in the water, with intricate blue symbols painted on his face and exposed lower arms, Callian looked like an ethereal creature, like a messenger of Sere, as if he was about to disappear beneath the waves. He was composed and calm, so unlike that frightened, shaking child that had to be dragged out of the ocean on his initiation day; that was the first day Roan properly saw Callian, and he had been unable to look away since.

The man felt something rubbing against his leg and looked down to see Ogma attempting to wedge himself between him and Feona.

“Oh,” Roan reached down and scratched the big wildcat behind the ear. Ogma started purring, “Hey there, big fella.”

“Oh, Ogma,” Feona giggled when the guardian nosed at the pocket of her trousers that held the flask, “It’s not for you.”

A soft growl came from Airmid, who was perched on the sand up ahead next to Bris. Ogma nipped Ro’s hand playfully and then trotted towards his companions, sitting at their side. Roan smiled. Just then a loud cawing came from overhead, breaking through the sound of the music, and villagers looked up to see a large black raven circling overhead.

“Finally,” Callian breathed in relief, breath misting in front of his face. He was finding it awkward, standing in the water alone with all the villagers just staring at him.

Orena pushed through the crowd. Her pale brown curls bounced as she walked quickly towards the water, tying up her knee-length skirt at the waist as she went, and kicking off her shoes. Mannannan swooped down from the heavens and landed on her shoulder as she put the shoes aside, face impassive. She was late, but she didn’t care. The same symbols that decorated Cal’s skin were etched on hers, and she wore the same hooded green cloak around her shoulders. When she stepped into the ocean she shivered and her guardian picked himself up off her shoulder and took to circling over the Dreiyards again, before landing on the bare branch of a nearby tree.

“Where were you?” Callian whispered insistently when she came to stand next to him. Her pale cheeks were flushed, and she was breathing a little hard though her eyes didn’t betray any emotion.

“Sleeping.”

“Did you run here?”

Orena inclined her head, a girl of few words.

“Did you bring the salt?” Cal persisted. Orena shook her head.

“I forgot.”

Callian stifled an irritated sigh. Orena was hopelessly irresponsible. He pulled one of the pouches hanging at his belt off and handed it to his partner. She took it and clasped it at her own belt.

“You don’t have to be so perfect all the time, Cinnéidie.”

Just then the drumming got louder, echoing through the waves. Cal and Orena exchanged knowing looks and pulled up their hoods. The crowd parted.

Maganna walked towards the shore, one hand on her curved wooden staff, the other resting on one of the horns of Gwydion, her stag guardian. She was dressed in a long, black dress, her grey hair curled in a braid that fell down her back. Despite her old age she walked straight, and looked regal. Behind her walked the groom, Uliah. He had braids in his chin-length chestnut hair, and his beard had been trimmed. He wore a dark blue tunic and black leggings, his feet bare sinking in the wet sand. He looked nervous. On Gwydion’s back, sat sideways with her legs gracefully over the stag’s side, was Darwanna, Feona’s best friend. She swapped out her trousers and battle-axe for a flowing light blue dress, and had little braids in her hair, a crown of interlocking vines on her head. She was beaming.

When they reached the shore, the music stopped. Maganna stepped into the water, soaking her dress, and came to stand between her protégés, barely sparing them a glance. It was a compliment, meaning she trusted them to do exactly as needed. Cal felt calmer now that she was here and watched with other villagers as Uliah helped Darwanna off of Gwydion’s back. A murmur of whispers went through the crowd when the couple stepped into the water, holding hands.

“No turning back now, Dari!” Roan shouted to the bride who glanced back at her friend with a grin. Feona cupped her hands around her mouth.

“You can still run, Uli!”

The man gave her a wobbly smile and laughter erupted in the crowd. Cal’s eye twitched – trust the Chieftain’s children to try and turn everything into a joke. _Focus,_ the druid reminded himself when Uliah came to stand in front of him. He gave Cal a faint smile and let go of Darwanna’s hand, allowing for her to stand in front of Orena. Callian felt a little awkward – he and Uliah were the same age, and yet they had never spoken, despite the fact that less than two hundred people lived in Cervantes. Uliah was naturally drawn to the charm of Roan, and so automatically was not Callian’s friend; this tactic of rejecting anybody who tolerated Cal’s enemy ended with him having no friends since everyone loved Roan, but he didn’t care. He smiled back at Uliah though, seeing his nerves. Marriage was a big commitment.

“Friends,” Maganna’s raspy voice carried to the shore, “We have gathered here today in front of Sere’s waves to see the union of this young couple. Let us ask the gods for the blessings. First Ferro, our father.”

Elders of ten of the village grouped together, including the Chieftain Beorthion, and lit huge sticks off of one of the burning pyres, standing in a line in front of the spirit guardians, the flames flickering.

“If the god Ferro wants to reject this marriage,” Maganna called, “then let his hand smite the flames.”

But they remained burning. Uliah, whose back was to the shore, looked at Cal. The druid inclined his head ever so slightly, and a wild cheer rang from the villagers as the fire continued to burn, billowing smoke into the sky. Callian produced a pot of blue paint he had made earlier in his hut, and Orena mirrored him. He was a little nervous, but he had practiced these motions in his hut a hundred times. The drums began again as the two druids simultaneously drew a line of sapphire going down the centre of the couple’s faces.

“The two begin their union!” Maganna proclaimed, “and their marriage shall be protected by Mulla’s care. May she hold them in her arms, and may they reign long and happy, remaining together for all eternity like Mulla and Ferro!”

“May she hold them in her arms!” the villagers echoed, and once again the music went silent.

“Anxo!” Maganna lifted her hands up to the dark night sky. Despite it being autumn, it was clear and full of stars, “Sere’s sacred angel! You who sees everything, if this marriage is doomed, blow in the night clouds and let there be a storm that will separate this union.”

The Dreiyards held their breaths. Uliah squeezed his eyes shut. The sky remained clear. The cheers became deafening.

“Relax,” Cal murmured to the groom as he reached into a different pouch, pulling out a handful of salt. He poured it into his other palm and Orena did the same, and then the two of them dipped their free hands in the ocean. Cal lifted his hand and pushed it through Uliah’s hair, wetting it. Then he carded the salt through the strands, standing on his tiptoes in order to do so.

“Come, lay down,” Cal instructed, stepping aside. Uliah gave him a fearful look but Callian held out his arms, and the other man carefully knelt in the sea at the same time as Darwanna, and laid back on Callian’s arms. Water gently lapped at Uliah’s hair and he closed his eyes, tense.

“Sere!” Maganna called, “our good goddess. If you know the fate of these two, and know they should not be together, let them sink to your watery castle gates now.”

Callian released Uliah, and the man remained afloat, as did Darwanna. It was over.

“Uliah T’recht and Darwanna Aeroe, I now proclaim you united by the sea!”

“Lug!” Roan and Feona hurriedly approached their friend, dragging Wynna behind them forcefully, “there you are.”

The long-haired man was sitting by one of the many bonfires that were burning all throughout the village as the Dreiyards celebrated the wedding, hours after the newlyweds had been escorted to complete their wedding night. The village was full of music, dancing that was turning wilder and clumsier by the drink, and alcohol.

“You were supposed to get one drink,” Feona scolded Lug, who looked up at her drunkenly, “You’ve been missing for an hour!”

“I was-,” Lug hiccupped, “having fun.”

“Alright, alright,” Roan collapsed next to his best friend, “let the man breathe, it’s a party, dear sister!” He plucked a mug of mead from Lug’s hand and drank half of it with one gulp before offering it to his sister. Feona broke, sat at her brother’s side and drained the cup. The trio looked up at Wynna, who was blushing and looking down at them.

“H-Hi Lug,” she whispered timidly. Feona rolled her eyes but Roan grinned.

“Why don’t you come sit down next to Lug, little sister?”

However before Wynna could make a move towards them, a young man appeared at her side, the same one who she had been looking at during the ceremony. He grabbed her by the wrist and whisked her off towards a group of dancers.

“Well,” Feona flopped onto her back against the grass between the huts, “There was your chance, Lug, and now it’s gone.”

Lug frowned and looked at the siblings, “What chance?”

“Gods, you’re stupid,” Feona snorted, “Wynna is considered the prettiest girl in the village. If you don’t make a move soon someone else will marry her.”

“Pfft,” Roan laughed and adopted a mug that had been abandoned on the grass by one of the dancers, drinking its sweet contents happily, “maybe not marriage yet. Let’s not make that a habit.”

“I don’t like Wynna,” Lug grumbled.

“Sure,” Roan chuckled. He looked towards Uliah’s hut, but it was dark and there was no sign of the couple coming out any time soon. A few younger children had gathered at the door and were pressing their ears against it, giggling and shoving each other. Roan sighed. He felt warm, and his head was a little fuzzy from all the drinking, “How long are they going to fuck for?”

“Give them a break,” Lug said, leaning his chin in his hand and looking out at the village sleepily, “if you got your hands on Callian you wouldn’t let him out of bed for three days.”

Roan’s body burned and his heart skipped a beat. He smiled, “More like a fortnight.”

“Animals,” Feona shook her head in disgust, “absolute animals, the lot of you.”

Roan watched the dancers spinning each other around, his sister among them, and contemplated joining them. A couple stumbled into a hut nearby, giggling and drunk as they kissed. The mead hall’s doors were thrown open and people kept venturing in and out, food in hand, singing songs.

“ _Oh were that you were my lovely little lass, I’d give you all ma heart and love you till I pass. And were you drowned on a stormy night, I’d swim the oceans and do you right. Aye, were you my lovely little lass...”_

“Idiots,” Feona sat back up. Two drunk men stumbled past, the words of the song slurring together. Just then Callian came out of the shadows between two houses and sat down by one of the smaller bonfires, away from the others. He was alone, and nobody came up to him. Roan’s heart started to pound and Feona smirked as she saw her brother’s eyes following the redhead, “So, brother mine, your little druid did good today.”

Ro smiled, “Aye, he did,” he admitted, eyes softening the more he looked at Callian. The boy seemed unaware, lost in thought, nibbling at his bottom lip and staring into the flames as if they were going to give him all the secrets, “no shivering, standing there as if he couldn’t feel the cold. He’s going to be the Head Druid, I can feel it in my gut, and he’s going to be the best one yet.”

“Gods,” Feona couldn’t help laughing, “You sound like Wynna. But honestly, I don’t really understand what you see in him.”

“Me neither,” Lug admitted, and hiccupped again.

“He’s just...,” Roan’s tone turned dreamy, and he shook his head, “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Well me and Darwanna have a bet going,” Feona said, “she say you can bed him by spring. I bet it’s never going to happen.”

“Well you’re wrong,” Roan huffed, crossing his arms over his broad chest, “He _will_ love me back, I’m sure of it. He’s just still holding a grudge.”

“You could have anyone in the village,” Lug pointed out.

“I don’t want anyone,” Ro snapped, getting irritated now, “I want _him.”_

“You’re too stupid for him,” Feona said with a mischievous grin. Roan elbowed her and finished his drink.

“Should I go talk to him?” he asked, the drink clouding his judgement. He watched Cal, the twitchy, nervous movement of his pale hands, the way his eyelashes fluttered. Gods, Roan just wanted to kiss him. If he could _just_ kiss him he’d die a happy man.

“No,” Feona said, “You should go dance with _her.”_

She pointed at a girl with her chin. She was leaning against one of the huts, smirking, hip jutting out seductively. Her name was Aruna, and she was and Roan had been flirting for a while now, and he knew she wanted to bed him, and he wasn’t opposed to the idea. Her hair was fiery like Callian’s.

“Yes,” Roan stood up, mock-bowed to his friends and half-walked, half-stumbled towards Aruna, allowing her to pull him into the whirlwind of dancers.

Callian tried not to look. _Let him dance,_ he didn’t want to care about what Roan was doing, so he focused on the wedding ceremony instead. He didn’t know which of them did better, he or Orena, and even though he had given Orena her salt Maganna hadn’t seen that, and what if Cal was clumsy, or worse than the other druid? He gnawed at his fingernails and stared at the fire in front of him, trying to remain optimistic. He doubted himself and his abilities. Orena was a natural; even though she appeared not to care, when it came down to it she always managed with the smallest bit of effort, while Cal stayed up and studied and practice just to be equal to her. It was infuriating. _This is why no-one likes me,_ Callian told himself, _because I’m so obsessive._

Whatever. He didn’t need friends. He didn’t even know why he came out here to celebrate in the first place since he was all alone again.

“What’s with the long face, Callie?”

As if summoned by Sere herself, Aeth materialised at Cal’s side. The boy flinched in surprise, and then scrambled to his feet, face lighting up at the sight of his one and only friend.

“You made it!” the druid exclaimed and threw his arms around Aeth’s shoulders. The boy laughed.

“Of course I made it,” he patted Cal on the back. They haven’t seen each other in seven weeks since Aeth, an orphan like Cal, had been travelling. He was an energetic person and could rarely stay in one place long, so the life of a bard suited him. Besides, he had the voice of an angel. He looked the same as the last time Cal saw him though; short, messy black hair, cheerful pale blue eyes and the same happy-go-lucky smile that seemed too big for his face. His cheeks were as round as always, as was the rest of him, and his lyre, Seashell, seemed small from where it was strapped to his back.

“Seems like I missed most of the party,” Aeth looked past Callian at the very-drunk Dreiyards.

“Wasn’t much fun anyway.”

“Oh you _always_ say that,” Aeth punched Cal’s shoulder playfully, “come on, let’s get something to drink, tell me about how the celebrations went.”

Two women and a man walked past them, ruddy-cheeked from alcohol, “Oh!” they exclaimed, “Hello, Aeth! Long time no see!”

“Aye, hello,” Aeth smiled at them broadly. Despite not living in Cervantes he had many friends here. Cal felt a little jealous, “you enjoying the celebrations?”

“Aye,” the trio giggled.

“Here!” one of the girls shoved her mug of mead into Aeth’s hand, “I can’t drink anymore.”

“Come on, come on,” the other girl tugged insistently on the hands of her companions, “Let’s go!” It was very clear where they were heading.

“Right, right,” the first girl nodded, “good seeing you, Aeth! Oh, and good job tonight, Callian.”

Cal felt a flush rising on his face and Aeth just happily waved at his friends as they stumbled alone. Cal bit his bottom lip and tucked a piece of hair behind his ear, trying not to feel too pleased at the compliment. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.

They sat back down by the fire, “So how was Hangulla?” Callian questioned as Aeth took a sip. The bard shrugged.

“Same old, same old. Feara clan is angry because some Voubren had burned a bunch of load raiding villages.”

Callian frowned, “Voubren? What are _they_ doing in Beauralt?”

Aeth shrugged, “Something to do with one of the Lord Protectors, some weird courting or something like that. But that’s not important!” Aeth slapped Cal’s knee, “Tell me about you! How is being a druid going?”

“The same as always,” Cal rolled his eyes, plucked Aeth’s cup from his hand and took a sip. He looked up over the rim and his eyes landed – quite on accident – on Roan and his redheaded partner. They looked happy, and he spun her around by the fire. Cal couldn’t help but think that they would make a good couple; she was beautiful with good child-bearing hips, and added grace to his brute strength. The druid wondered how he’d react if he had to marry them. He’d probably dunk Roan under the water and drown him.

Roan looked up. Their eyes met. Callian flushed vividly and looked down.

Aeth started to laugh, “Jealous?” he teased, nudging Cal with his elbow. Irritated, the druid battered him away and returned the mead.

“Don’t you start. I have enough of that from my guardians.”

Aeth sighed happily, “I don’t see your problem,” he watched Roan dancing, “He’s handsome, he’s brave, I’ve seen him fight and so have you – he’s very, very good. He’s funny, he seems kind. Why do you keep rejecting him?”

“He’s an arsehole,” Cal hissed, “all he does is taunt and make fun of me. I would not go near him over my dead body. All he wants is to shove his cock somewhere warm, or to prove a point to his stupid friends that he can have anyone he likes. Well, he can’t have me.”

Aeth looked at him, and his smile saddened a little, “Y’know, if you’re always this stubborn you’ll really end up alone, Callie.”

Cal’s mood soured. Whatever giddiness he’d gotten from alcohol and the reunion with Aeth disappeared, “Thanks for the reminder, I really needed it. Not like you’re having much better luck with Wynna.”

“She’s too pretty for me!” Aeth laughed out loud, unfazed, and then; “Oh-oh,” was all the warning Cal got. He looked up and saw Roan approaching, and he wasn’t smiling, his brows knitted and shoulders tense. He looked pissed. The warrior came to a stop in front of the two and swayed gently.

“Aeth,” he said, aware that there was an icy chill in his voice..

“Hullo, Roan,” Aeth obliviously smiled at the blond, “how is your father?”

“Good,” Roan said bluntly and turned to Callian, “Will you come dance with me?” he asked, words slurring a little. Despite his huge size, he seemed like a child in that moment. Cal wrinkled his nose.

“No. You reek of alcohol, get away from me.”

Aeth slapped his arm, “No need to be rude,” he hissed. But Roan just laughed boisterously.

“Alright,” he grinned, eyes half-closed. He was very drunk, “But don’t dance with anyone else, wife.” He reached for the druid, but Cal slapped his hand away.

“Stop calling me that,” he gritted and stood up abruptly, “I’m going home,” he announced, “You coming?” Aeth blinked.

“I’m going to say hi to some friends,” he said sheepishly.

“Fine,” Cal glared at him, then at Roan, “I’ll put a fur out for you on the floor.”


	7. What the Moon Cannot See

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIGHT SO. I accidentally switched this and the next chapter around so the story made no sense, but it's back the right way around now, sorry.

**The following morning, Late Autumn, 212CE**

**Castle Darmont, Crasbury, Wildeshell.**

**Kingdom of Beauralt.**

****

Lysander was sat on his throne in the Great Hall, anxious to the point of nausea. Three days ago he received a Voubren envoy that tried to negotiate the terms of his and King Sef’s marriage. Naturally all of them were rejected, which was why Lys was here now, about to meet Sef himself.

If it was up to him, he would have fled the castle. The prospect of seeing the man who had been pining for him and sending him love letters for half a year was terrifying. This was also a man who had burned half of Wildeshell’s coast. But what else had Lysander left to do? He hoped that this meeting would maybe deter the King from harming his kingdom even more, and perhaps they could come to some sort of agreement, though the Lord didn’t know what he could possibly offer Sef.

Lysander felt queasy, like a child. He also felt alone, isolated on his throne which was situated on a rise with four steps leading up to it. On the floor on either side of him was a line of chairs in which sat the Masters as well as Lys’ mother, cold as always. The rest of the huge room was filled with all the people from Lys’ court; visiting lords and ladies, his cousins, delegations from other nations, representatives from other kingdoms of Beauralt. There were also knights and guards, as well as lawyers and politicians from Crasbury that had come to witness this ‘historic’ event. There were maybe a hundred and fifty to two hundred people in the hall, all gossiping excitedly, their whispers echoing through the room and making Lys even more nervous than he already was. They were all looking forward to seeing what the infamous King Sef looked like; to them this was nothing more than entertainment. They were safe in Darmont, they didn’t bother themselves with the fate of the peasants who were attacked by this man. To them it was simply a scandalous, merry affair that they could bring up over tea for years to come.

God, how Lysander hated these nobles.

He bit at his lip nervously, a bad habit of his that right now he was unable to stop himself from doing, and his tired eyes drifted to the tall, gothic windows of the hall. Outside it was a dreary early afternoon, rain streaking down the glass. A perfect reflection of the miserable mood Lysander was in. He wanted this embarrassing affair over with quickly, so he could come up with a plan of action, though his options didn’t look good.

On accident the man’s eyes met Estania’s. His mother was glaring at him, nostrils flaring. Lys quickly released his bottom lip from his teeth and sat up straighter, stomach flipping. Regardless of how he performed today, his mother would still criticize him for even ‘entertaining this ridiculous notion,’ and compare him to his father. Lysander was resigned to that.

The waiting was unbearable. Although Lys was petrified, he couldn’t help but be a little curious as to what kind of man Sef was. In his head Lysander had pictured a huge, uncivilised, brutish man, something akin of the Dreiyard raiders-

The door opened and a herald walked in as if summoned by Lys’ thoughts. He was very far away, at the other end of the hall, but Lys could still see how pale he was when he lifted a trumpet to his mouth. The noise that played was shaky and off-pitch, betraying the herald’s nerves. He tucked it under his arm.

“K-King Sef!” he proclaimed, voice high pitched and cracking over the first word as it echoed through the hall, hushing the crowd. Baralthol winced in his seat, “t-the King of Voubrenia and h-h-his entourage!”

Lysander’s heart started to pound and a fresh wave of nausea broke over him. _Stay calm, stay calm, you’re the Lord Protector,_ he chanted in his head and yet helplessly wished that there could be someone, Baralthol, his mother, Lord Rassel, _anyone,_ next to him right now to hold his hand and make him feel less alone on this raised pedestal he never wanted to sit on in the first place. The herald fled to the side and the crowd in the room parted, leaving a large empty corridor in the centre. The court was silent as they stared at the open door, and Lysander wanted to vomit.

First came the drums, a loud, rhythmic beating that made the floor vibrate and was akin to what Lys imagined the footsteps of a giant would sound like, seemingly approaching closer and closer, sweeping into the hall and breaking the spell of silence of the court as the whispers resumed; ladies gripped their husbands, men laid their hands on their swords. Lysander hated the grandeur and suspense of it all. His heart dropped even lower when the drums reached a zenith and the procession entered the hall, accompanied by shocked gasps from Lys’ court.

First entered the drummers; six half naked men of dark complexion and impressive muscles walking in a strict line, their most intimate parts covered only by golden cloths casually slung across their waists – even their feet were bare. The drums were attached to them by leather strips around their necks, allowing the men to drum with both hands, their faces covered by twisted, terrifying animal masks; Lys recognised a monkey, a tiger, an elephant...Some of the ladies of the court produced fans and hid their blushing faces and their wandering eyes. Somewhere, someone fainted.

Following the drummers were a dozen female dancers, with their breasts shamelessly exposed. As if to make up for that, their legs were hidden beneath long, earthy-coloured skirts, and golden circlets gleamed in their intricately braided dark hair. Several of them had long yellow snakes wrapped about their shoulders, holding them as if they were accessories. Several members of the court screamed as the dancers broke from the procession and approached the male Lords, who stared open mouthed as the women seductively danced towards them. However when they got too close their snakes jerked out and snapped their impressive jaws at the men, hissing and causing the Beaus to recoil in fear while the women returned to their positions, laughing as if playing a game.

Lysander was shocked, heart pounding as he gripped his armrests and leaned forward. Like many of the others, he wondered how the women were controlling the snakes. It very quickly became clear that it wasn’t the women because behind them, carried by four half-naked muscular men on a huge pillow, was another drummer, a withered old man with a long, braided beard whose drum was much smaller, resting in his lap. When he hit it, the snakes snapped forward as if he was compelling them. Lys held his breath, overwhelmed.

Following the snake charmer was even more exotic acts; two more half-naked men, whom Lysander assumed were soldiers, walked side by side, holding the leashes of two huge amber tigers, who stalked beside the crowd, eyeing the people up hungrily. More screams echoed through the hall and there was some scrambling backwards; several more ladies dropped to the floor. Lys thought this was all unnecessary and too much, especially when one of the tigers let out a fearsome roar. Behind the animals walked a lonesome female figure, dressed in a long, straight black dress that exposed the tips of her breasts. She had a crown of black feathers on her head, and her tiny braids almost touched the floor. On her face and arms were intricate, inky tattoos. Lys’ heart squeezed. _A necromancer._ He saw his people lean in and peer at her as if she was some sort of exhibit, both terrifying and fascinating. The ladies fanned themselves harder.

The procession seemed never ending, filling the hall and stalking towards Lysander step by step – women, lords, dancers, fire-eaters. The Lord tried to remain composed even as his Hall faded to grey around the beauty of it all. More people entered; they carried statues of gold and chests full of diamonds, and cages of exotic birds and platters of exotic fruit. It was all a presentation of Voubrenia’s wealth and opulence and wonders.

And then _he_ entered – the King. Or at least Lysander assumed it was the King for he rode a gorgeous black stallion and was flanked by spear-holding guards with fierce expressions. For a moment Lys forgot how to breathe; _this is it,_ he thought, _this is him._

He sat straight and confident, a lion-skin cloak covering his left shoulder though his chest and stomach remained exposed, the muscles tight and defined under the dark skin. The man’s hair fell to his chin in a straight, silky raven-black sheet, and yet Lys could not see his face for it was hidden behind a wooden mask, painted with a fearsome expression.

The drummers finally reached the steps leading to the throne and with one final slam on their instruments, stopped. The procession came to a halt and Lysander watched with bated breath as an invisible wave passed over the Voubren, and they all knelt in front of Lys. His court gasped in shock. Lysander was no king, and people did not kneel in front of him, especially people as powerful as the Voubren. He was at loss of words.

In the silence that befell the Hall, King Sef slid gracefully off his horse. Behind his mask, his eyes were fixated only on Lysander, and he grappled in his mind for something to say. The Lord was as elegant and strong as Sef had imagined laying in the bed in his cabin. He looked so regal upon the throne, seemingly made of stone, soft-looking, slightly overgrown light brown hair sweeping over his brow, a furred cloak around his strong, broad shoulders. His silver eyes betrayed little even as his mouth was set in a thin line. He was younger than Sef imagined. Seeing him in person made a grin creep onto Sef’s mouth and he was glad the mask covered his face so he didn’t appear over-eager, despite his heart pounding at the sight of his husband-to-be. In Sef’s eyes, Lysander Harkness was a sight to behold.

“My King,” Sef spoke in fluent, un-accented Latian, and did not hesitate in bowing to the Lord despite the fact he held the higher status. He would show Lysander the respect he deserved. When Sef straightened the rest of his court stood up and moved aside, creating a pathway for Sef to get to Lysander. The man began to walk towards the throne leisurely.

“I am but a Lord, King Sef,” Lys’ voice was strong and rang through the hall, the voice of a commander, clear as a summer sky, and icy like fresh snowfall. He didn’t stand up, “I wish I could say I welcome you to Wildeshell, but the circumstances do not allow for that.”

“Let us forget the past, my Lord,” Sef was still grinning and barely aware of all the eyes glued to him, “so that it does not cast a shadow over this long-awaited meeting. You are a pleasure to look upon, my Lord.”

Sef had gotten close enough to Lys that he saw his fingers twitch on the armrests and watched with mirth as a light blush flooded his cheeks. It made Sef want to whisk him away back home instantly, courting be damned. Lysander swallowed, trying not to let Sef’s scandalous words unbalance him, even as gasps of outrage echoed through the hall. Such open declarations were rare in Beauralt, and between two men they were forbidden. Though there was something about the free way Sef spoke, with his voice like honey, that made Lys’ skin tingle – the King knew how powerful he was, and that there was nothing Beauralt could ever do to him, and so he said and did exactly as he pleased. It was somewhat refreshing.

“You are bold, my Lord,” Lysander attempted to keep his composure. Sef unceremoniously reached up and pulled his mask off, and Lysander was thrown off his axis all over again. Louder whispers erupted through the room and all Lys could register was that the King was very good-looking, with a full mouth, strong nose and sultry deep brown eyes. The pressure of the situation was getting too much for Lysander and he wanted to run from the hall, but instead all he could do was stare at Sef. The King looked back intensely, almost arrogant in the confident way his eyes drank Lysander in. It made Lys’ skin feel hot all over; Sef was completely shameless, standing there and undressing the Lord with his eyes as if nobody was watching. It made Lys’ words dry out in his throat.

“We Voubren are known for saying as we feel,” Sef offered with a grin, “and taking what we want,” he added, pointedly looking at Lys.

“And being appropriate, I see,” Lysander interjected, attempting to hide his outrage. Sef seemed unfazed, charming grin in place.

“I meant no disrespect, my Lord.”

“Enough with the small talk,” Lys could only stand to be in the overpowering presence of the King for so long, “Let us do what you came here for. Negotiate.”

Sef shook his head, “I am afraid I did not come here to negotiate, my King. I came here to ask you to marry me in person.”

More shocked gasps from the Beaus, more fainting – this is what they had come here to witness.

“You know what my answer will be, your highness,” Lysander replied, emotionless and rehearsed. Sef sighed, a little disappointed.

“I must admit that does not surprise me,” he said and gave his captain of the guard a look. Immediately his soldiers pulled out swords and spears – God knew from where. Lysander gasped and jerked to his feet, as did his Masters; Baralthol pulled his own sword out and around the room the knights did the same, but just then a large mass of Voubren soldiers, skimpily dressed but carrying huge spears, flooded the Hall through the open doors. Lys’ heart started to pound. People began to scream, and the Voubren turned their weapons on them, pushing them back against the walls. Clearly the Beaus were outnumbered.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Lys demanded, looking down at Sef. The King smiled at him nonchalantly.

“My King, don’t you know? We declared war on you, and now we have taken your castle. You, and all of the people in this place, are now my prisoners, Lord Protector, until you agree to my proposal.”

“Y-You-,” Lysander was lost, confused, scared and _furious,_ and couldn’t think of anything to say to Sef. Threatening him would make no difference; King Ormond was much too scared and Beauralt was much too weak to declare war on Voubrenia, and undoubtedly they would sacrifice Wildeshell if they had to. That thought was unbearable.

The look of hurt and betrayal on Lysander’s face hurt Sef, but the King had no other choice.

“Soldiers!” he shouted in Brenii, their native language, “escort the prisoners to their rooms but do not harm them. Nobody leaves or enters the castle except for our own. Heroti,” he turned to his Captain of the Guard, a big, bulky man with a shaved head and amusement sparkling in his eyes, “take your best men and ensure that the Lord Commander is confined to his chambers.”

“You will not get away with this!” Lysander snapped at him, also in Brenii, rushing down the steps and towards Sef. He was stopped by the King’s guards, who seized his arms. The Hall was in chaos as soldiers herded out terrified nobles; Lysander glared at Sef, but saw that the man would not stand down.

“Let go of my Lord!” Baralthol roared behind him, struggling in the grips of four men. Lysander turned around.

“Enough, Barry,” he spoke harshly, “There is no point starting a massacre.”

Baralthol looked like he wanted to kill Sef but gave up his struggle, allowing the guards to drag him towards the exit. Lady Estania went calmly, head raised high, and the Voubren soldiers didn’t touch her, simply followed her like shadows. She didn’t even look at her son. 

Lysander was fuming, walking from his window, to his bed, to the fireplace. He shoved logs in angrily, then paced back to the window to watch the courtyard through the glass blurry with rain, only to throw himself back onto the bed, with restlessness forcing him to stand up seconds later. It was agonizing, the endless wait that Lysander had been subjected to for the past several hours. There were two heavily armed Voubren guards at his door and although Lysander spoke fluent Brenii, as expected from a Lord Protector, they refused to respond or even look at him. Slowly the man was beginning to accept that he was a prisoner in his own castle. He felt like a child being sent to bed with no supper.

A respite from the uselessness finally came in the form of Lysander’s mother. The Lord had no idea what time it was but the sky had been dark for a long time when his door finally opened and a one of the Brenii guard assigned to Estania escorted her in. She walked gracefully, seemingly unaffected by her shadow save for the tightness in her mouth, still dressed in her day’s clothes.

“Mother!” Lysander breathed a sigh of relief and rushed towards her, “Are you hurt?”

She looked at Lys coldly and remained silent. Her escort remained in the room, though he closed the door. Lysander didn’t know what to say. This was a disaster.

“Mother I-,” he tried to step towards her. She lifted her hand faster than he could react and the explosion of pain in his left cheek informed him that she had slapped him. Lys stumbled backwards, more out of shock than the force of the hit. Shame flooded him as Estania calmly lowered her hand.

“You are a disgrace,” her voice was like stone, though inside she had to stop herself from hurting Lysander more, “All of this is your fault. If you had only listened to my counsel,” anger burned visibly in her eyes now, “we would not be in this situation.”

Lys stared at her, wide-eyed, and subconsciously touched his burning cheek, “I-I...,” he swallowed and tried to explain himself, “this was the only thing to do, otherwise he would have-“

“Who cares?!” Estania snapped, finally allowing her anger to brew over, “He would have what, Lysander?! Continued attacking your precious fishing villages?! Don’t make me laugh. Stop trying to be some mythological hero and save everyone – if you had allowed that man-child to feel powerful for a few more weeks eventually he would have gotten bored and returned to that sinful kingdom of his. But _no-_ you invited him into our home and now he has assumed your place- your _father’s_ place!”

Lys glanced fearfully at the Voubren guard but he seemed unfazed by Estania openly slandering his King and country.

“I’m not going to leave people to die for my sake,” Lysander said quietly. His mother’s gaze made him feel like a failure.

“Then you will never be the man your father was,” she spat and turned back to her guard, “We can return to my chambers now,” she didn’t bother to speak Brenii to her guard even though she knew it, her own little way of being even more spiteful.

When they left Lysander felt cold and alone. He sat on his bed and wrapped a fur around himself tightly, lost in thought. Wind howled through the castle, squeezing in between the crevasses in the stones, and the rain kept pounding on the windows. God, how Lys hated being cold.

He felt numb though, and stared into space, watching absently as the light from the fireplace threw dancing shadows against the wall. Everything he had worked for, the forgotten kingdom he had tried so hard to upkeep, had fallen apart. And what was he to do? Continuing his resistance would undoubtedly end in death and destruction, and if he gave in he would disappoint his mother and all of his people.

Guiltily, and not for the first time, Lys entertained the thought of marrying a King. Now that he had seen Sef’s face it was somewhat easier to picture. And yet the King didn’t seem real, as if he was made of parchment, as if he was pretending. His lavish lifestyle and violence paired with the romance and desire he held for Lysander refused to go hand in hand. What would their marriage be like? How would they bed...?

A knock came on his door, urgent and loud, and Lysander barely had time to scramble up from the bed and release his furs before Lord Rassel was shoved in, followed by two of his own Voubren guards.

“Rassel!” Lys gasped, “What are you doing here?”

“Bizarrely,” the old man smiled, his warm eyes calming Lysander down the way they always did, “King Sef has no problem with you receiving visitors, as long as we are supervised,” they both looked at the guards still in the room, so still they might’ve as well been made of stone.

Lys stood close to Rassel, “Any news? What’s happening?” he asked quietly. Rassel shook his head and sighed,

“For now not much. I can hear Baralthol shouting offences at the guards from next door to my chamber, it is quite tiresome,” there was cheer in his voice that lifted Lys’ spirits.

“And the other Masters?”

“Unharmed, I assume. The King has thrown a banquet however.”

“ _What?!”_ Lysander demanded. He was on the highest floor of the Castle, just below the towers, and couldn’t hear a thing.

“Yes, all of your court have been invited, including yourself of course, and I must say several went.”

“This is absurd,” Lysander rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to absorb the information, “Is this some kind of jest to him?”

“Regardless,” Rassel grabbed Lys’ arm and pulled him into a hug, surprising the Lord with the sudden affection. That was, until the Master whispered in his ear, “We must get you and your mother out of the Castle as quickly as possible.”

“Hey!” one of the Brenii soldiers barked and poked Rassel in the back with a spear, “No touching.”

The two moved apart and Lysander gave Rassel a stern look, “No.” He said. Rassel’s tired, wrinkly eyes accepted defeat as if he had expected it. He nodded.

“Very well. Remain on your guard, my Lord,” he bowed his head and then he too, was gone.

Alone and frustrated by the King’s insolence, Lysander sat at his desk and pulled out parchment. He had to write to the King, though he didn’t expect a positive response, but perhaps one of the other Lord Protectors would come to his aid. As he wrote, he began to hear the banquet however, growing louder and louder as the night dragged on, and when the letter was finished he realised he would not be able to send it.

Sef was enjoying Wildeshell since it was a welcome respite from the monotony of his ship, however he would have enjoyed it more if Lysander had made an appearance. The teasing glimpse he had gotten of the other man and the precious minutes they spent together was enough to make a smile remain permanently plastered to his face as he sat in the Lord Protector’s throne, watching the Hall in front of him. His court, or rather the half he had brought on his voyage with him, were dancing and drinking, the rhythmic Voubren music echoing through the castle halls. More and more of the Beau lords and ladies were drawn in as the hours passed, allowed out of their rooms but not out of the castle, which pleased Sef, as he watched groups of young giggling girls escorted into the Hall, undoubtedly without their parent’s permissions. Many of the Lords were present, particularly interested in the half-naked snake-dancers. The mixture of the two cultures seemed amusing to Sef as he sipped wine from a golden goblet – the wine, naturally, was from Voubren since he refused to drink any of the bland Beau liquor.

Earlier, when Sef saw Lysander all stoic, sitting in this throne, he realised that winning his heart was going to be harder than he thought, so he made the effort to make this cold castle feel a little bit like home since he’d be here a while. He had the meek, scared Beau servants hang up golden-threaded tapestries on the harsh stone walls, depicting the great battles Voubren had won. On the stone floors he had a large, intricate carpet laid out, and there were tables brought from the dining room, now bending under the surplus of food and drink transported from the ships. The room smelled of freshly roasted pork and spices, and was lit with a warm golden glow from hundreds of candles strewn around. It was no longer the drab, grey hall it had been when Sef arrived hours earlier.

“My King,” Dresmo Sydian, one of his councillors, a leechy, greedy middle aged man that Sef kept at court because of his sister fondness for him, approached the throne and bowed down low to the King. He was tall, with a straight nose and a single patch of  black hair on his otherwise dark, shaved head. Sef didn’t trust him; the man was known to sell secrets for a price, and he knew many, many secrets, “May I congratulate you on the choosing of your husband. He appears strong, and stubborn too. It is a good trait.”

“Yes, thankyou Dresmo,” he waved the man off, tired of listening to people complimenting Lysander. Yes, he knew that the man was strong, and he didn’t need people to tell him how gorgeous he was, he had eyes after all. He had chosen the perfect person for him, and seeing people use Lys as an excuse to grovel was irritating him.

The last person Sef wanted to see began to climb the stairs to the throne. The man groaned, making Heroti snicker from where he was stationed at his side, and drained his cup.

“Are you really going to go through with this?” Beheret demanded, standing directly in front of Sef, insolent, with her hands on her hips.

“Move,” the man said tiredly, “You’re blocking my view.”

“This is ridiculous,” Net hissed. Sef ignored her and stuck his hand out to one of the servant girls to his side. She had been trembling an hour earlier, holding a pitcher of wine, moments from tears. Now she freely came over and refilled Sef’s cup for the fourth time, smiling shyly at him. He winked at her and turned back to his sister, who was fuming, “You’re wasting time,” she said quietly, threateningly, “End this charade and let’s return home and have our wedding.”

Sef’s stomach flipped in disgust. Now that he had seen Lysander he couldn’t imagine marrying anybody else – _especially_ his sister, “Sorry, Net,” Sef leaned back on his throne, “I’m afraid I’m otherwise engaged,” he smirked, and Heroti chuckled.

“Oh really?” a twisted, cruel smile appeared on Beheret’s face, “And where _is_ your dear fiancée? I don’t see him here. Maybe it’s because you disgust him-“

“That is enough,” Heroti said gruffly, stepping forward, spear in hand. Sef’s stomach knotted up and he could barely say anything. The lights in the hall seemed to dim. He remembered Lysander’s eyes, so cold and grey, and the way that he had looked at Sef – full of hate.

“Shall I take Princess Beheret to her chambers, sire?” Heroti asked. Sef stood up, not looking at either of them.

“Yes,” he said, “the party is over.”

**Earlier that evening, just after sunset, halfway across the world.**

**The Din-Moher Harem, Antasa, Hadia.**

**The Shairin Empire.**

****

“Leahil,” Gahr Rahun bowed stiffly to Seraf who was sat at the round table in the private, indoor garden on the third floor; a more informal setting that he hoped would make his little brother less anxious when meeting his fiancée.

“Lord Rahun,” Seraf replied, voice measured, “it is an honour to guest you in my Harem.”

“Thankyou, Leahil,” Gahr responded, and when Seraf gestured to a free seat opposite him at the table, the man sat. Seraf took him in, immediately judging him. Gahr was older than Ari by a few years, and at twenty seven summers old he was closer to Seraf age-wise than he was to the youngest Abazza. Seraf couldn’t help but think that this man in front of him was much too old and solemn for Ari; he was handsome, to a degree, with light brown skin and a jaw covered in a carefully styled black beard. His hair was covered with a white scarf, tied around his head with a golden band. He had big hands and broad shoulders, and yet his dark eyes seemed cold and arrogant, seizing Seraf up in an almost insolent way. The Leahil already knew this wasn’t going to end well, but Seraf had little choice. The Rahun family was esteemed and _very_ wealthy, as well as being one of the biggest exporters of iron in the Empire – with the war with Beauralt intensifying Seraf needed all the weapons he could get, and for that he needed iron. Although Beauralt was small and much weaker than the Shairin, their tactic of starting false attacks with small fleets in certain parts of the Empire, only to strike elsewhere, out of reach of the Shairin army, was exhausting their resources. The Rahun’s had requested that Gahr and Arian marry, otherwise they would not sell to Seraf. It had been an easy decision to make in the heat of the moment, but now Seraf was regretting it.

“Where is my fiancée, Leahil?” Gahr asked – _no,_ demanded. Seraf’s hands clenched under the table.

“He will only be a moment. He is finishing getting ready. For now – refreshments?”

Two floors down, a commotion was taking place.

“Gus!”

Augustus was in his chambers, sitting by the window and enjoying the late evening breeze coming from outside, reading a tome of Odelian sonnets, when the door to his chamber unceremoniously burst open and Eryel stalked in as if she lived there.

“Eryel!” Burha hissed, hot on her lover’s heels, “Manners! Knock first!”

Behind them, more timid and reserved, came Kater. The three wives were dressed in long, flowy dressed, Burha in mossy green, Eryel in pale lilac and Kater in crimson.

“You look lovely, ladies,” Gus shut his book, and a feeling in his gut, as well as Eryel’s facial expression, suggesting something was amiss in the Harem. And Gus had a bad notion that he knew exactly what.

“He won’t get out of bed!” Eryel proclaimed, standing in front of Gus with her hands on her hips, long onyx hair in a braid over her shoulder, “We’ve tried everything, even _physically_ dragging him out, but all he’s doing is screaming and crying.”

Gus’ heart twisted and he sighed, squeezing the book he was holding tighter in his hands. Kater peeked around Eryel.

“I think he needs you,” she said gently.

“He _always_ needs Gus,” Burha remained behind the other two, rubbing her forehead in an effort to chase away the headache she felt approaching, “he’s an adult, he needs to learn that Gus won’t always be there-“

The Odelian stood up abruptly. He hated when Burha spoke like that – she was the most realistic of the three wives, and yet her words hurt, and hit too close to home, “It’s fine,” he said, walking past them briskly, “I’ll speak to him.”

Gus’ room was on the first floor of the Harem, and Ari’s was on third, so it took him some time to get up there though he walked as fast as he could without running. Candles burned in the lamps and the Harem was relatively quiet due to the hour; after the long celebrations of the wedding everybody needed rest. Gus rushed past the silent apartment of the Mother Leahila, and climbed up the stairs at the end of a gloomy corridor, which brought him outside the Grand Library on the second floor. He heard rustling inside; undoubtedly one of the wedding guests who had lingered there, picking out some things to read. Here he hurried past the Grand Baths and rounded the balcony that shot down to the empty, dark courtyard, slipped past the fountain and pushed the wallpaper to reveal a secret staircase. It was pitch black in there but Gus had walked up these narrow steps thousands of times, and at the top he had no problem finding the door-handle despite the murky darkness. When he opened the secret door, he found himself in Ari’s chambers.

It was dark, all the candles blown out, with only the moonlight slipping in to give everything an ethereal, silver glow. The huge windows leading out onto the balcony were thrown open, and the transparent curtains hanging on them shifted and blew into the room like ghosts. Arian was a lump under the covers on his massive, canopied bed. Gus had spent many nights here in this bed after he and Ari grew out of the age where they shared the bedroom with all the children, and he approached it now, slowly sitting down next to the outline of the Prince’s body.

Ari knew it was Gus. He hugged himself tighter under the covers and squeezed his eyes shut. While he was under the covers nothing could hurt him. He imagined that when he opened them it would be morning and he and Gus would be able to spend all day together, and nothing would change.

“Ari,” Gus’ voice was full of regret.

Arian sniffled, eyes filling with tears he couldn’t control, “I-I don’t wanna,” he whispered, voice trembling. He felt Gus’ gentle fingers on top of his head, where it was sticking out from under the covers.

“I’m sure he’s very nice,” Gus said softly, “I’ll come with you, alright? And Seraf will be there too. It’s in the indoor garden, you like that garden.”

Gus’ gentle voice coaxed Ari out enough to stick his head above the covers. His eyes were red and nose snotty, and Gus couldn’t help but smile at the sight of his helpless best friend. He pulled the sleeve of his long-sleeved tunic over his hand and wiped Ari’s nose with it. The Prince sniffled.

“I’m scared,” he whispered, but he was _always_ scared. Gus didn’t look at him pityingly though like everyone else did, instead opening his big arms.

“C’mere,” he said, eyes gentle. Arian hurriedly climbed into his arms, wrapping his own thin ones around Gus neck and squeezing. The Odelian laughed,

“Don’t strangle me now, Ari.”

Ari closed his eyes and squeezed tighter, trying to magically absorb all the warmth of Gus’ body into his own. Maybe his organs would turn it into courage somehow. He felt the Odelian’s arms close around him like a safe cage and Ari sighed in relief, forgetting the whole ordeal. As long as he was with Gus he’d be fine, because Gus would never let anyone hurt him. The Odelian stroked Ari’s long hair.

“You alright now?” he asked. Ari nodded and sniffled. He had to be good for Gus; if he cried in front of the man he was supposed to meet Gus might get angry and they might never get married. The thought made Ari’s heart hurt and more tears well up in his eyes, but he blinked them away determinedly and let go of Gus. Seeing his best friend’s face, all soft smile and softer eyes, made him calm down. He gave Gus a watery smile back, “There you go,” Gus’ own smile widened and he gripped Ari’s face in his hands, quickly kissing his forehead, “Good boy,” he whispered, and Ari preened like a cat. He wanted to make Gus proud, and happy.

It was some more time before Ari and Gus made it across the Harem and into the garden. In that time Seraf had managed to make painfully awkward small talk with Gahr, and had cool lemonade and grilled cheeses be brought in, in an attempt to appease his guest. He kept looking around the exotic plants and trees growing in the room and climbing up to the glass ceiling, attempting to get some sort of direction for the conversation from them. Just as he was beginning to lose hope that Ari would make an appearance at all, the glass door to the room opened and he strode in, accompanied closely by Gus. Seraf breathed a sigh of relief.

Ari looked nice in a loose pale blue shirt and with his hair tied back in a braid that barely reached his mid-neck, a few dark strands escaping and curling around his face. Both Gahr and Seraf stood, and Ari froze in his tracks, looking up at his fiancée. He saw his beard, his angry eyes and thick eyebrows, and automatically his hand scrambled backwards to grab Gus’, heart pounding, but Gus wasn’t there. When Ari turned around, panicking, he saw the man a few feet away, standing by a glass wall and smiling encouragingly at Ari.

The Prince swallowed and turned to his fiancée.

“Omarian!” Seraf was just a watery blob behind the stranger, “Say hello.”

“H-Hello,” Ari mumbled, hands clenching in his shirt anxiously. He felt light-headed, and like he was going to be sick. He could feel the stranger’s eyes dragging over his body, and it made him want to squirm.

“Well he isn’t much is he?” Gahr stated arrogantly, “And he’s late.”

Seraf was taken aback by his rudeness, and unsure of what to reply. He suddenly wished Burha was here, since she was always very good at dealing with insolent guests in a simultaneously threatening but polite way. Seraf just cleared his throat.

“Shall we sit?” he asked, collapsing in his chair. Gahr sat down too, clearly unimpressed, and Ari padded around the opposite side of the table, ensuring he did not come near his fiancée. He took the seat next to Seraf and the Leahil saw his little brother’s hands shaking in his lap. 

“Well,” Seraf cleared his throat again, “Omarian. This is Gahr Rahun, he will be your husband.”

Ari didn’t say anything, eyes glued to a blossoming flame bottletree just in front of him. Gahr snickered,

“At least he’s quiet and obedient,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “I suppose he’ll do.”

Across the room Gus’ hand travelled to his sword hanging at his hip, and his jaw clenched. He did _not_ like Gahr. He had promised himself he would _try_ to be amicable with Arian’s fiancée, despite the fact that the idea of another person having the one he loved made him want to rip someone’s head of. But now, seeing the way Gahr was speaking about Ari, the way he was _looking_ at him, like Ari was some piece of meat to be consumed, made Gus’ blood-boil. The only reason that that man was still sitting comfortably in his seat was because Gus didn’t want to start a civil war because of his own selfish feelings.

“Omarian,” Seraf tried to remain positive, “Why don’t you ask Gahr what he likes to do? Perhaps you share some hobbies.”

Ari’s eyes didn’t move from the flame bottletree, “What do you like to do?” he asked hollowly. Gus knew that Ari was shutting down; he did it when he was afraid, he would just stare at something and go into a sort of protective trance.

“I like hunting,” Gahr seemed bored, “drinking and partying. I also like books.”

Seraf pinched Ari’s thigh under the table. The Prince flinched, the room flooding back to him. He looked around, the plants blurring together, and his chest squeezed. He looked at Seraf, and barely saw him.

“Omarian, you like books too, don’t you?”

 _Books._ Ari imagined he was in the Grand Library, laying on a divan during a summer afternoon, golden light streaming in through the windows and illuminating the words on his page. He was reading about beautiful princes and princesses, and the warriors that saved them from horrible monsters. He imagined that the room was full of characters; the sneaky thieves and the beautiful women, the magical genies and gorgeous palaces. He swallowed. Yes, he liked books.

“Yes,” he agreed, “I like books. I particularly like the ones about monsters and warriors.”

Gahr laughed mockingly, “What are you, a child?” he demanded. Ari flinched and a flush flooded his cheeks. He remembered all the times his cousins would laugh at him – _Ari you’re such a girl. Ari you’re such a baby._ He didn’t want to be here. He liked music, and he liked reading books, and he liked dreaming, and what was wrong with that?

“You’re mean,” he whispered, thankfully quietly enough that Gahr didn’t hear. Seraf gave him a pointed look and started to converse with Gahr. Ari didn’t listen, looking at the pretty red bunches of leaves among the green of the flame bottletree. _Pretty._ They flickered before Ari’s eyes, like real flames. The Prince smiled.

“Omarian,” Seraf’s voice brought him to reality, “Gahr asked you a question.”

Arian blinked his big eyelashes and looked up at his husband-to-be, “Huh?” he asked.

“Ah, not a bright one, are you?” Gahr sighed, “Leahil, please, do you not have any other sibling?”

Seraf swallowed, “No.”

“Well this one just isn’t great, is he?” Gahr asked, and his words stung somewhere deep inside Ari’s chest, “is he even right in the head?”

“That is your future _husband_ you’re talking to,” Seraf reminded him coldly.

 _Future husband._ Tears welled up in Ari’s eyes. _No, no, no..._ He didn’t want to cry, not here, not in front of this cruel man. He didn’t want him to think he’s a child, he wanted to be brave for _once._ But he couldn’t help it – the man’s words were so cold Ari could _never_ marry him. The tears began to drip, sliding down Ari’s cheeks and hitting the table. The Prince jerked to his feet.

“You’re _horrible!”_ he proclaimed, but didn’t look at Gahr, instead shoving past him, shocking both him and Seraf, as well as Gus, who watched open-mouthed. Ari headed for the door.

“Where is he going?!” Gahr demanded.

“Ari!” Seraf shouted after him, but Arian didn’t listen, practically flying out of the garden and spilling into the corridor. He felt as if the air in them had been suffocating him, and he couldn’t stand to remain in Gahr’s presence for any longer. His legs broke into a run on their own accord.

“He’ll come around,” Seraf said, sagging in his seat. God, he was getting a headache. Gahr seemed irritated.

“Well,” he huffed, standing up, “He really is a child.”

He stormed out of the room much like Ari had done.

A tense silence settled in the garden. Seraf cleared his throat, but Gus spoke up before he could try to resolve the awkwardness.

“You’re not going to go through with it, are you?”

Seraf sighed, “Gus, it’s not that easy.”

Gus rushed to the table. He was not one to get angry, but now Seraf saw fury burn in his grey eyes. _He cares so much,_ that fact squeezed Seraf’s heart. If only it wasn’t for _fucking_ Beauralt, the two of them could be together...

“Call of the engagement,” Gus commanded. Seraf’s eyes narrowed.

“Watch your tone. You’re lucky we’re friends, Augustus, or this wouldn’t go down well.”

“Do you know what didn’t go down well?” Gus snapped, “ _This._ This fucking _pantomime._ There is no way in heavens this will ever work out, and you know it!” Seraf blinked, honestly surprised at Gus’ outburst. His cheeks were red, eyes sparking, “that man clearly hates Ari, and Ari almost had a complete meltdown just speaking to him. How do you think the wedding will go?! How do you think the w-wedding night...,” his voice cracked and trailed off. Seraf watched as pain flooded his eyes. He looked at the Leahil pleadingly, “Seraf,” he whispered, “you _can’t._ You can’t make him do _that_ , not with him. Not with...,” he wanted to say _anyone,_ but bit his tongue.

Seraf exhaled gently, “Gus,” he said softly, understanding the pain the man was feeling somewhat, “I need this alliance. Hadia, _hells,_ all of the Empire needs this alliance. Since the Urofis scrolls were found, the Shairin had always held six lands, as was intended. I can’t lose Hadia, Gus, or everything will go up in flames.”

 _Get yourself together, you have no right to make demands._ Gus took in calming breaths, “I’m going to see if he’s alright,” he said dully and turned away. As he walked through the Harem he couldn’t help the resentment building up in his chest. He loved Seraf like a brother, but he didn’t know if he had it in him to forgive him for forcing Ari like this. Fuck the Shairin and their fucking religion, fuck the scrolls and the six lands. Gus didn’t care about any of that, all he cared about was Ari’s happiness.

It smelled like Gus, and that was comforting. Arian laid in his best friend’s bed, covers pulled over his head. It was too hot underneath them, but he didn’t want to come up for fresh air in case Gahr was there. He really, really didn’t like Gahr. The covers kept him safe. When Ari closed his eyes and inhaled, he believed Gus was there with him, embracing him, protecting him. The boy sniffled as yet another tear fell diagonally across his face, sinking into Gus’ pillow. Would he be angry that Ari got them wet? The Prince sniffled and choked on a sob. He didn’t want Gus to be angry.

_How long have I been crying for ?_

The bed dipped and Ari flinched, curling in on himself. He was here. Gahr was here to hurt him. The Prince squeezed his eyes shut and whimpered, curling in tighter on himself.

“Hey,” Gus’ soft whisper was like sunshine, and made relief gush through Ari, “It’s just me,” he pulled the covers away, revealing Ari’s head. The boy looked at him with glazed eyes, but Gus didn’t look angry, his handsome, chiselled face relaxed into a gentle smile, “I was looking for you. It gave me a fright when you weren’t in your room.”

“Are you angry?” Ari whispered hoarsely, just in case. Gus reached down from where he was perched on the side of the bed and ran his fingers through Ari’s hair comfortingly. He hated seeing him like this, all red, teary eyes and trembling shoulders. It broke his heart to know that the person he loved was scared, and that there was nothing he could do about it. He had promised to protect Ari, but he couldn’t protect him from this.

Without a word the Prince shuffled across the bed, away from Gus, and looked up at him expectantly. _I shouldn’t,_ the Odelian thought briefly, but he was already moving. He couldn’t say no to Ari, not now. He pulled off his sandals and climbed onto the bed, laying on top of the covers as Ari laid beneath. The tears disappeared, replaced by a beaming smile.

With no restraints, Ari pressed himself up against Gus, sliding his slim arms underneath Gus’ in order to hug him. He rested his forehead against the man’s collarbone. Now it really smelled like Gus. The Prince’s fear and anxiety ebbed away.

Gus closed his arms over Ari, sliding one hand into his hair to keep him close. He rested his cheek on top of the boy’s head and stared at the window across the room, his other hand subconsciously rubbing the boy’s back gently, soothingly. They laid like that in the comfort of silence. A wave of sleepiness descended onto Ari – the stress of meeting his fiancée had exhausted him. His eyes started to feel heavy.

“I don’t like him,” he broke the silence with his soft voice, snuggling further into Gus. The ward’s hand stilled on his back, “He’s scary. And mean.” Ari thought for a second, “and he’s not you,” he summarised. Gus huffed out a little laugh, mussing Ari’s hair and ignoring how warm that made him feel inside.

“Maybe he was nervous,” he tried to find a way to make the way Gahr behaved excusable, “you were nervous too, right?”

Ari pinched Gus’ back, making the man flinch, and then pulled away. Gus was surprised to see a glare on the Prince’s face, thick brows all furrowed, “What?” he asked, blinking.

“Don’t do that,” Ari said, voice harsh and unlike him.

“Don’t do what?”

The boy sniffled, expression crumbling, “D-Don’t treat me like I-I’m an idiot, Gus.”

“No, shhh, hey,” Gus gripped the boy’s face in his hands as tears gathered in his eyes. _No, no, no,_ “You’re not an idiot, Ari, you know that. You’re the smartest little thing. You know more about the world and all the kingdoms than Seraf and I combined.”

The Prince sniffled but smiled a little, flushing at the praise. Gus always knew how to make things better. Ari leaned forward and kissed him. It was just a sweet press of the lips.

Gus drew back, his eyes darkening as he let go of Ari’s face and scooted back, putting some space between them, “Omarian _don’t.”_

Ari’s heart twisted in pain and he pressed the side of his face into the pillow. _Why are you like this?_ “I love you,” he breathed, confused as to why Gus was being cold.

“Ari I _told_ you,” Gus was having a hard time keeping his emotions at bay. He sat up, legs over the side of the bed, back to Ari. He spoke to the room, “You _can’t_ kiss me, alright? That’s something you should only do with Gahr.”

“Kattie says I should only do it with someone I love,” Ari argued, pushing himself up into a sitting position. He looked at Gus’ broad back. The Odelian didn’t say anything, but he didn’t leave either. Ari shuffled forward on his knees, and rested his chin on Gus’ shoulder. The man sighed. _Fuck._ When it came to Ari he was so weak.

“Just don’t do it again.”

Ari didn’t like the heavy mood. He wrapped his arms around Gus’ neck and leaned forward, squishing their cheeks together, broad smile on his face. He used to do this when they were children, in the rare times Gus needed cheering up. He felt the Odelian smile back, even though he tried not to.

“You’re such an ass,” Gus snickered, and Ari pulled away. They smiled at each other, friends once more. Gus’ heart filled with love and he reached out to ruffle Ari’s soft hair, “I love you too,” he said, and Ari didn’t know how much weight those words carried.

“Can you stay here?” he asked sweetly. Gus nodded.

They laid back down, and Gus turned Ari around so the boy’s back was against his chest. They had shared a bed for years, and their bodies automatically slid together, fitting together perfectly. Ari rested his arms around Gus’ own arm that was wrapped around his waist, and the welcome tiredness returned. He closed his eyes, enjoying the heat of the other boy against him, and revelling in the occasional gentle breeze that was blown in through the open windows.

Half of the hour crept by, and Gus didn’t fall asleep. He laid there, calmed by Ari’s deep, measured breathing as he dreamt. The boy’s body was warm and pliant against Gus and for now he was safe in the ward’s arms. Every so often the Odelian would lean down and press a kiss to the top of Ari’s head, careful not to wake him.

The door to the room creaked open and Gus jerked up into a sitting position. His eyes met Eryel’s, half-hidden in the shadows, and she seemed surprised to see him. A blush flooded Gus’ cheeks when the woman’s eyes slid from him, to Ari still sleeping on the bed.

“Sorry,” she smiled knowingly, “I thought he’d need comforting but looks like you took care of that.”

“I’m only here in case the sleep thing happens again,” Gus blurted, embarrassed. He should not be in the Prince’s bed, especially with his fiancée in the Harem. The Shairin might have been free-loving and encouraged to have sex with multiple partners even when married, but Gus, as an Odelian, didn’t believe that.

He stood up and shoved his sandals back on, sparing Ari one last glance. He hurried to the door, “I’ll take my leave now,” he didn’t meet Eryel’s eyes. She grabbed his arm, stopping him. Her eyes were unusually soft.

“It’s alright,” she said gently, “this is nothing to be ashamed of.”

 _I could never be ashamed of him._ Gus looked at her helplessly. She placed her hand on his shoulder now.

“I know you love him,” she whispered, “and I know you want to protect him. It’s good that he has you.”

Gus shook his head, overwhelmed. If things were different..., “I’m not good enough for him,” his voice was pained, “I’m not valuable enough to be allowed to marry him.”

“Which doesn’t mean he still can’t be yours,” Eryel smiled, “look at me and Burha. She is mine and I am hers, and we are both married to Seraf.”

She made it seem so easy. Gus remembered Gahr’s face. If that man so much as saw the way Gus looked at Ari, the Odelian would be banished and forbidden to ever see the Prince again.

“It’s not that simple, Eri.”

The woman sighed and dropped her hand, “That’s what you think.”

“Can you stay with him?” Gus asked, “I don’t want him to wake up and be alone but I can’t...I can’t...,” he tried to find the right words.

“It’s alright,” Eryel understood anyway, “Go.”

**The following afternoon, not so far away.**

**The Dalahari Desert, Hadia.**

**The Shairin Empire.**

****

No matter the prayers, the sun was unforgiving. It hung against the yellow-tinted sky, white and blazing and burning hot, giving no indication of disappearing behind the horizon anytime soon. Its rays heated the sand of the desert, and every time Tomoya’s foot slid in his sandal and touched it, pain would sizzle across his skin. He had drank the last of his water, as had Ivo, and there was nothing to break the endless torture.

They had been on the desert since dawn, having left the small town of Zafaran behind them. They were told by locals that the Dalahari desert was a small strip of sand between them and Amr in Hadia, and that it would take not even a full day to reach the desert-city. But they were also warned; if they went too far East, they would be on the desert for nearly two days, and miss Amr completely. Tomoya was confident; he had a map, he bought water and food and a shawl to wrap around his head to protect him from the heat. But after hours and hours of walking through the never-ending sand, he was starting to lose faith. He saw no city and Dalahari lacked any landmarks to indicate where they were; it was just the damned sand and occasional cacti jutting out of it like bones.

It was a journey much more exhausting than Tomoya had anticipated. At first Ivo had been yammering away, becoming a focus for Tomoya’s frustration. He talked about everything, and simultaneously about nothing of value, his voice like needles, prickling the back of Tomoya’s head as he forged ahead. The kid seemed to never shut up, even to take a break. But as the day dragged on and their supplies depleted, Ivo had grown quieter and quieter, and now he trailed behind Tomoya, silent and dragging his feet. Tomoya hated the silence even more than the constant stream of words.

The truth was painfully obvious to both of them and yet neither admitted it, both quietly hoping that Amr would appear out of the hazy skyline any minute. But it didn’t. They were lost. Tomoya didn’t know what was more depressing, the unbearably heat that made sweat pool in his collarbone and yet left his mouth painfully dry, or the monotonous landscape that seemed to go on forever. He had lost track of how many times he had pleaded with Taiyoo in his head to give him some refuge from the scorching heat of her sun. Perhaps he had been foolish to assume his punishment for his sins was over.

“I need a break,” Ivo’s voice was croaky from the lack of water.

“We need to press on,” Tomoya continued walking. When he heard a dramatic _thump_ he turned to see that Ivo had stubbornly sat down on the sand, and was staring into the distance like a grumpy child. Tomoya bit back his irritation and dropped his sack, also sitting down. He could feel the heat emanating from the ground and watched the boy out of the corner of his eye.

Honestly the ex-Guardian had no idea how Ivo had survived so long by himself. He was loud, obvious and not strong at all, needing to rest frequently. _He feeds off others,_ Tomoya remembered Ivo in the inn, sitting in that man’s lap, and he blushed furiously. The boy might have looked innocent, with his hair growing even lighter in the intense sun and his face burnt red, but he was a seducer and a sodomite, and Tomoya couldn’t trust him. For now, just as suspected, he was a burden, but it was a little late to do anything about it now, though Tomoya was seriously considering just ditching Ivo in the next town they crossed and continuing alone.

 _I need to leave him in Amr,_ Ivo thought grumpily, feeling Tomoya’s eyes drilling holes into him, _but first I have to rob him._ He had thought attaching himself to Tomoya would give him a higher chance of survival, but being around the man was impossible. He was insufferable, silent and looking down on Ivo like he was a bug. He barely answered any questions, barely even _spoke_ to the Dukkosh, and he was judgmental and stuck up – all the things Ivo hated in people. He lamented internally how he could have been in some rich man’s caravan, being carried across this wretched desert in return for simple sexual favours but _no –_ instead he had decided to go with this stupid man, and now he was being tortured. Ivo had already decided – in Amr he would leave the Mairi and find himself a more comfortable way to getting to Cheri.

Besides, this would resolve his other problem – the fact that he had lied to Tomoya. Ivo’s father was a simple farmer back in their village; he was no chief, and there would be no pretty, fairytale cottage for Tomoya when they arrived. It worried Ivo constantly as he walked behind the other man – what would happen if he found out? The plan was always to lose him before they even reached Grudorin, but now, after spending hours in his company, Ivo thought of setting his plan into motion much earlier.

“How far is it?” Ivo asked.

“I don’t know,” Tomoya snapped, “Have you had enough of a break?” he demanded. Ivo gritted his teeth, feeling the sand between them, and hauled himself up. His legs hurt, and his skin burned.

“You don’t even know where we’re going,” he accused Tomoya.

“Yeah, well,” the man stood up and dusted sand off his trousers, which was a little useless since they had sand _everywhere_ anyway, “neither do you, and you’re the supposed guide.”

And that was that. They walked for another hour. The landscape didn’t change. Sweat trickled down Tomoya’s face, too salty to drink. Ivo’s eyes were having trouble focusing. Everything was yellow and hot. A few times the blond thought he saw the outline of a city in the distance, but before he could call out to Tomoya, who was a while ahead of him, the city would fade away, a fata morgana, teasing Ivo with the promise of rest only to snatch it away.

Ivo fancied he saw trees, golden buildings, tall, rocky mountains, riders on camel back...

_Riders._

The blond froze in his track and squinted. His heart exploded into a furious race in his chest. Those watery figures on the horizon seemed more real than all the other mirages, a whole band of them, riding straight for the two lone travellers.

“Tommy!” Ivo yelled, a burst of energy allowing him to run after his companion.

 _Tommy._ Tomoya whirled around, “Miko?” he breathed. He had been watching his feet as they moved, _step, step, step,_ over the sand, a hypnotism of sorts that allowed Tomoya to drown out his surroundings. He had heard the echo of his friend calling him, but when he turned around he just saw the blond pest running towards him. Disappointment made his heart heavy.

“I already told you not to call me that,” he snapped in irritation when Ivo reached him.

“Shut up and _look,”_ the Dukkosh breathing hard as he pointed over Tomoya’s shoulder. The ex-Guardian followed where he was pointing and his eyes widened. If Ivo was unsure before whether the riders were real, he could see that they were now, and they were clearly going straight for the pair.

“ _Shit,”_ Tomoya reached for his dagger but Ivo slapped his hand away.

“Stop it,” he hissed, “maybe they can help us find the way to Amr.”

“You’re an idiot,” Tomoya growled, “We can’t trust anyone, what if they’re dangerous?”

“You’re so paranoid! Not everyone wants to kill you, you know.”

“And not everyone wants to fuck you-“

“Hello, friends!” came a cheerful voice. The group had gotten to the travellers much faster than anticipated, and now the two shielded their eyes from the sun to look at where they had stopped a few feet away. To their surprise the riders were not on camel-back, but rather rode huge, dark horses, sitting on them freely, with no saddles.

Ivo, who didn’t understand Airyan, started to count how many there were, eyes dancing over every member. There were seven, which was good, since Ivo could only count to ten. Two of them were women, one older one younger. The older was smirking in an unsettling way, a beige cape thrown over her head. The lower part of the younger girl’s face was covered with a veil, and she was dressed skimpily, her dark eyes focused directly on Ivo. The members in the group were men of varying ages, all of dark complexions, with hooded capes over their heads protecting them from the sun. Everyone looked related, but then again, all Shairin looked similar to Ivo with their dark hair and dark eyes.

All Tomoya noticed was that they were all heavily armed, including the women. His hand rested on his dagger which paled in comparison to their huge curved blades.

“Hello,” he replied carefully.

The leader who had spoken, a buff man with a neat black moustache and a gleaming golden tooth, leaned forward curiously, smiling, “My name is Ishgan, and this is my family.” He gestured to the riders behind him, “You two don’t look like you’re from this area. A Mairi and a North-Islander, am I guessing right?”

The less he knew, the better, “Correct,” Tomoya replied in Airyan, and decided to stick to the previous narrative, “me and my husband are heading to Amr.”

“Ah,” Ishgan shook his head and sighed pityingly, “I’m afraid you’ve headed too far East my friend. You’ve passed Amr some hours ago.”

Ivo tugged on Tomoya’s sleeve, “What’s he saying?” he asked in a whisper. Tomoya fought the urge to shove him off, instead grabbing his wrist and pulling him behind him in a move he hoped looked protective, though he personally just wanted Ivo out of the way.

“No need for that,” Ishgan’s smile widened, “we’re not after your pretty little husband. We’re all friends here, aren’t we?” there were murmurs of agreement from his group, “here,” the man continued, “let’s talk properly, eh?” he offered, and slid off his horse, landing heavily on his feet. Thuds echoed around as the other Shairin followed suit. Tomoya took a subconscious step backwards, pushing Ivo back too. Sun gleamed off the blades of the Shairin, strapped to their waists and backs. They were not friends. Tomoya began to form a plan in his head, his training taking over. Maybe he could take them on, buy Ivo enough time for the boy to run. But where would he go? There was nothing but sand for miles...

_Why do I care?_

Tomoya let go of Ivo’s wrist which he had still been holding. Now Ivo was starting to get anxious too.

“Just North-East of here is the Great Yarn road,” Ishgan continued, taking slow, almost casual steps towards Tomoya and Ivo. The ex-Guardian tried to back away as subtly as he could, especially since the other six followed closely behind their leader, “if you follow it, tomorrow by sundown you should reach Cheri.”

“Thank you,” Tomoya’s voice was icy. He caught the movement of the youngest girl as she reached for her blade, pulling it out. Tomoya drew his dagger, shoving Ivo backwards simultaneously, “ _run,”_ he commanded him in Kasha, but Ivo didn’t move.

“That is so _sweet,”_ Ishgan taunted, and all of his riders pulled out their weapons, advancing freely on the two men and circling them, cutting off any chance of escape Ivo had. Tomoya was too focused on the enemy to be angry just then though.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“Hmmmm,” Ishgan cocked his head to the side, his smile slimy, “that depends. Sahura, lovely wife,” he looked at the older woman, “what would you like from our two friends over here?”

“Well, I don’t know,” the woman drawled, “but I can see our daughter has her eye on the pretty blond one.”

 _Give him to them._ “No,” Tomoya protectively reached behind himself to ensure that Ivo was still there, pointing his dagger at Ishgan and not his wife. He would not hurt a woman. When he joined the Wall he promised to protect the weak. He might’ve not been a guardian anymore, but he wasn’t going to break that promise. “You can’t have him.”

“Shame,” the daughter sighed, mouth hidden behind her veil.

“What’s in the sack then?” the wife – Sahura – demanded, eyes lighting up with greed.

“Nothing,” Tomoya barked.

Ivo was lost, and afraid. He kept glancing behind him, where the men had created a circle. He was terrified that one of them would jerk forward and stab him in the back with one of their horrific swords. Tomoya was arguing with their leader, and Ivo didn’t understand a word, he just knew they were in big, big trouble.

Things happened very fast suddenly, and Ivo should have probably been paying more attention. The leader leaned down to grab Tomoya’s sack, but the ex-Guardian struck out, jerking forward and lifting his dagger. Ishgan’s daughter was faster still, intercepting his weapon above her father’s head with his sword and slamming Tomoya backwards. As this happened, Ivo felt an arm wrap around his middle and roughly pull him back. He screamed and Tomoya whirled around, allowing for Ishgan to take his sack. He threw it to one of the men, a slimmer, younger one, who started riffling through it.

Tomoya was torn. The man was pulling out what little food Tomoya had left, his blanket, and all his money, meanwhile Ivo was struggling in the grip of a muscled, terrifying looking Shairin, shouting offences at him in Kasha. And all Tomoya had was a dagger.

“Give up,” Ishgan suggested “there’s no point. You’re two against seven, and your little husband would be no use in a fight.”

Tomoya’s shoulders slumped but he knew Ishgan was right, “Stop fighting him,” he told Ivo, but the fierce blond ignored him, trying to bite his attackers arm.

“He doesn’t have much, all his water’s gone,” the youngest boy reported to Ishgan, “but there’s some money.”

“Good,” Ishgan smirked and eyed the contents of the sack, spilled onto the sand, “take it, and the food too. And the blanket.”

“What good is it to you?” Tomoya growled. If they took the sack, they would take the last thing Miko gave him.

“None, actually,” Ishgan smirked. The young boy shoved everything back inside unceremoniously and grabbed the sack, slinging it over his shoulder and heading for the horses that had been standing by calmly, “but my youngest son,” Ishgan gestured after him, “doesn’t like blood very much, and I don’t feel like dirtying myself by killing you. I’ll let the desert do that for me,” he smiled, “the sun is setting. You’ll be dead by dawn, unless somehow you’ll find some water, which is unlikely,” he laughed.

Tomoya gritted his teeth but said nothing, glaring heatedly at Ishgan. He was surprised when the man who was holding Ivo let go of him, shoving him down onto the ground. The Dukkosh immediately jumped to his feet and tried to throw himself after the man, but Tomoya grabbed his wrist and violently pulled him towards him. Ivo’s back slammed against Tomoya’s chest and the Mairi held him there.

“Don’t, you idiot,” he hissed in Kasha.

Ishgan seemed amused, “Good luck to you, love-birds.”

“Let me go,” now Ivo was struggling in Tomoya’s grip and the Mairi had to clamp both arms around him to prevent him from doing something stupid, “I’m going to rip his eyeballs out!” Ivo yelled, confirming that he _was_ going to do something stupid, or rather get himself killed in the process.

Tomoya squeezed him harder, and when the riders got back onto their horses, turning them around, they kicked up sand in the air. Tomoya squeezed his eyes shut and Ivo stopped struggling. By the time the ex-Guardian had blinked the granules out of his watering eyes, the riders were a far way away. He released Ivo.

“You fuckers!” the blond ran a few steps, voice carrying through the desert, “fuck you! Fucking thieves!”

“Shut up,” now that the danger was gone, Tomoya was furious, “fucking _shut up_.”

Ivo turned back around, “I can’t believe that just happened! Fucking Sand Pirates!”

“Sand Pirates?!” Tomoya laughed humourlessly, feeling as if a dark cloud had descended on him, “did you not think to tell me there were _pirates_ in the desert before we set out?!” his voice rose to a yell, his frustrations overflowing. Ivo looked taken aback for a second.

“Hey!” he protested, face burning, “This wasn’t my fault!”

“Then _whose?!”_ Tomoya demanded, advancing on Ivo. He poked him roughly in the chest, physically stopping himself from punching the Dukkosh, “You’re supposed to be the guide! Where’s your common sense?”

Ivo’s features darkened in anger, and his nostrils flared, “ _Excuse me?!”_ he yelled back, voice cracking with emotion. He _did_ punch Tomoya, right in the chest, but the ex-Guardian barely felt it, “who was supposed to be the muscle?! A lot of fighting you did there, well done! Did they teach you how to pick flowers at the Wall?!”

 _This is my punishment. I will never leave this desert._ Tomoya wanted to cry, and he wanted to get away from Ivo. How stupid, _stupid._ He should have given the boy to the Pirates, at least then he could die in peace. Tomoya turned his back to Ivo and started walking, feet taking him in the other direction than he had been going so far. How long would it take for him to die if he just lay down in the sand? Would the vultures pick out his eyes like the ravens did to the corpses at the Wall? It seemed a terrible waste that all this that Miko had done for him had been for nothing.

Tomoya blinked away tears, not feeling the hot sand on his feet any longer. But that was because it had finally began to set. As he walked, the air became more breathable, but Tomoya didn’t care, watching only the sand in front of him, head hung low. He literally had nothing now. Nothing mattered. What little hope Tomoya had been clinging on to, hope of a second chance, he released into the sunset.

Ivo walked behind Tomoya, keeping his distance. He didn’t want to anger the man any more, but he also didn’t want to be left alone. He felt bad for how harsh he had been with Tomoya when the man was clearly the reason they were still alive, but he hadn’t known how else to react to being verbally attacked the way he was. He hated to admit it but he was useless.

Ivo sighed and looked up at the sky, which was blood-red. The sun had set frighteningly quickly, and Tomoya was far away. Ivo cupped his hands around his mouth.

“Tomoya!” he shouted, voice carried over the plains. The man didn’t seem to hear him and kept walking. Ivo’s irritation spiked, “Oi idiot!” he yelled, “We need to rest!”

Tomoya didn’t stop.

“ _Asshole,”_ Ivo breathed, “Fine,” he said to himself, sitting down on the sand and crossing his arms over his chest, “Be like that.”

He remained stubbornly in place, eventually flopping backwards and looking miserably at the sky. It turned purple, then indigo, and then the stars started to twinkle into existence. Ivo smiled. They were so pretty.  It grew colder. He shivered.

_Shit._

Ivo sat up abruptly and looked around, but the desert was black. His heart started to pound. How long had he been laying there? When did it get so damn _dark?!_ Panic settled into his bones and he stood up. He had thought Tomoya would turn around and come back for him, and yet...he turned in a circle blindly, breathing harder.

“Tomoya!” he called, but there was no response. He could hear insects though, the sounds of the night. What if there were wild animals around? Tomoya was the one with a dagger. Ivo blindly started walking in the direction he thought he saw the ex-Guardian go, “Tomoya!” he shouted, a little more hysterically. _No, he didn’t leave me,_ he tried to assure himself as he sped up, _he wouldn’t have._ Before he knew it he was running, tripping in the sand, choked up from panic, “Tomoya!” he screamed, his voice echoing back at him.

He stopped running, gasping for air.

“ _No,”_ he whispered, tears filling his eyes and blurring his vision. He slid his hands into his hair. He was alone, all over again. He was going to die all by himself. He was so fucking scared.

“If you keep screaming we’ll be eaten by coyotes,” Tomoya said, appearing out of the darkness, face impassive, some twigs and branches gathered in his arms.

Ivo’s legs nearly gave out and he was so relieved that he almost threw himself at the other man. Tomoya saw his tear-filled, terrified eyes he felt somewhat bad for scaring the boy.

“Oh _gods,”_ Ivo gasped, shaking, “you _asshole.”_

Tomoya rolled his eyes, “Whatever. We need to make a fire.”

After Ivo calmed down it took them another hour to gather enough twigs and stray, dry branches to build a fire big enough to burn through most of the night. It wasn’t so much that they needed the warmth, because although the desert got considerably colder at night, it was still warm, but the light would scare away any wild animals looking for a late night meal. Tomoya got the flames going with flints that thankfully he had in his pockets while Ivo watched, and then the two laid on their cloaks on the sand, stomachs rumbling from hunger that they could not satisfy as the Pirates had taken their food.

They laid back to back, not touching and listening to the branches snap and crackle as they burned. Tomoya stared into the desert in front of him, falling away into shadows. How much longer until it killed him? Maybe tonight would be his last night’s sleep. Despite these dark thoughts, he fell unconscious quickly.

Ivo, on the other side, laid on his side and tried desperately to push the pulsing heat of his body from his mind. Now was _not_ the time for this, not with a prudish man laying a few feet away, but Ivo couldn’t help it. After the day’s events his body craved a release, and with the awareness that Tomoya was just behind him, all hot and angry, made Ivo’s stomach knot up. He tried, but sleep would not come, and he laid for an hour on the sand, trembling and half-hard. Tomoya slept, and it wasn’t until Ivo finally broke and slid his hand into his trousers, wincing at the sand on his palm as he stroked himself furiously, wanting to get it over and done with, that he followed Tomoya into the land of dreams.


	8. The Blurred Lights of the Horizon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Thanks for all the love and sorry about the late update. Hope you enjoy x

**The following afternoon, late summer, 212CE**

**The Dalahari Desert, Hadia.**

**The Shairin Empire.**

****

“They weren’t lying,” Ivo breathed a sigh of relief when his feet touched the Great Yarn Road. It wasn’t really a road, just a line of stones curling into the distance and there was nothing ‘great’ about the road that connected all of the cities in the Empire, but the sight of it made a weigh lift of Ivo’s shoulders. The Sand Pirates had underestimated the pairs ability to survive, and foolishly given them the directions to the very road that would lead them to Cheri.

Tomoya didn’t say anything. Road or no road, he had very little hope of ever reaching the city. They had woken at dawn and save for short breaks have been walking for hours; it was almost sunset now, and Tomoya’s throat was parched. He felt exhausted from the relentless heat of the sun and doubted he and Ivo would survive another night in the desert with no water.

Vultures circled overhead, the only other living creatures Tomoya had seen for hours. The companions walked apart, with Ivo shuffling a few steps behind the ex-Guardian, and they barely spoke; mostly Ivo would make a remark, and Tomoya would ignore him. Tension was palpable in the air.

They walked for torturously long, the desert stretching out in front of them every time they crested a dune, never ending. Ivo’s skin was an angry red and peeling from being exposed to the sun for too long, and having his cloak over his head didn’t help and just made his arms ache from holding it up. Sand got into his eyes every few minutes and he’d have to blink it out. Tomoya had braided his long black hair to stop it from sticking to his sweaty face and Ivo watched it shift against his broad back with every step. They walked and walked and walked. Hot sand shifted between their exposed toes, their stomachs curled in desperate pleas to be fed, while their throats felt scratchy and raw with every swallow. Ivo thought of it as a mercy when the sun begun to set, casting long shadows on the desert and cooling the unbearable air. However Tomoya just felt dejected; as the sun began to dip behind the horizon he admitted defeat – it would soon be time to lie down and die.

“Hey,” Ivo called, voice croaky. Tomoya ignored him, pressing on regardless. Ivo’s vision shifted and he let out a whistling breath between his cracked, dry lips. He thought he saw two of Tomoya, walking side by side, “There’s no point going on,” he whispered faintly. His whole body hurt and he just wanted to sit down. With darkness came the demand of his body to go to sleep.

Tomoya didn’t hear him, lost in the tedium of putting one foot in front of the other. Ivo stepped after him, but then his knees buckled and his legs gave out. He folded to the ground like a piece of origami, laying on the still-warm sand. His vision blurred and he saw Tomoya sideways, walking away from him. His brain throbbed – this was the end. With the last of his strength Ivo rolled onto his back, and tried to get his eyes to focus on the stars slowly fading in above him as he attempted to drown out the ringing in his ears. He would have cried if he had the strength. He didn’t even have the energy to mourn the loss of his family, and the fact that he would never see Grudorin again. It all seemed insignificant now. It was just him and his bone-deep-tiredness, and the blurry stars.

The end had come surprisingly quickly, just as the sunset had.

 _Leave him, leave him,_ Tomoya chanted in his head, trying to stop his feet from approaching Ivo, who was stretched out on the ground, eyes closed. The Mairi stood over him, unable to bring himself to abandon the here despite how irritatingly slow he was.

“Come on,” Tomoya nudged the boy’s back with the tip of his sandal, “Get up. We’re almost there.”

“Liar,” Ivo croaked. Tomoya stifled a groan of frustration. His head was pounding from dehydration and the exposure to the sunlight, and despite night falling, the pain didn’t ebb away.

“ _Ivo.”_

“This is pointless,” Ivo whispered, and he sounded like he had given up. The pure acceptance of their fate could be seen on the relaxed muscles of Ivo’s face, and it made panic spark up Tomoya’s spine, making him more alert. He looked around the desert, the grey sand and the dark night sky, the sun just a warm memory. There was no indication that Cheri was close; a part of Tomoya knew Ivo was right, but the ex-Guardian couldn’t just lie down in the sand and die. But he also couldn’t imaging leaving the blond here alone. Miko and the others hadn’t given up on him, and a part of Tomoya felt he had to repay that debt in any way he could. Besides, the desert was terrifying and Tomoya didn’t want to continue on alone, though he’d never say that out loud.

“Stop being so stubborn,” he grumbled now, and grabbed Ivo’s arm. He tried to pull him up but when he let go, the blond’s arm just flopped useless against his side, “you’re like a sack of potatoes, you know that? Useless.” Tomoya complained, hoping to rile Ivo up and ignoring the scratchy discomfort he felt in his throat every time he opened his mouth. The Dukkosh didn’t respond. Tomoya gritted his teeth, “ _Fine._ Die then.”

He turned on his heel, more angry with himself than Ivo. He started back down the Great Yarn Road, feet stepping alongside the stones that were barely visible, ignoring the deafening silence around him, and the darkness. He walked for some minutes, constantly glancing over his shoulder at where he left Ivo until the boy’s body faded into shadows. _There was nothing I could do,_ Tomoya told himself. He had no strength to carry Ivo, and yet the nagging in his chest made it hard to walk away from the blond. Tomoya had never left someone to die before, and it was a horrible, gut-wrenching feeling. The minutes dragged on and with each step Tomoya felt increasingly more hesitant; eventually his steps slowed, and then stopped. He stood alone in the darkness of the desert and lifted a hand to rub it down his face, exhaling.

He frowned, squinting.

 _I must be hallucinating,_ he thought and tried to blink the lights away, but no, they were still there. His heart started to pound and he gasped, talking two steps forward. There, in the distance, he saw them – tiny, golden lights that cast a hue on the sky and made the stars pale. How had he not seen them before? Were they even real? It was too far for Tomoya to be sure it wasn’t a mirage, but he could swear it looked like a distant city. _I’m safe,_ he thought and relief made his knees tremble as he took some more steps in the direction of what would undoubtedly be his oasis. He was delirious, could barely concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other – he didn’t care about being realistic anymore and didn’t acknowledge the bitter disappointment he would undoubtedly experience when he realised that his mind was imagining the city.

Suddenly Tomoya stopped walking and tensed. _Ivo._ The memory of the boy made a different kind of emotion flood the ex-Guardian, an emotion hard to place, and without a second thought he was turning on his heel and walking, then running, in the direction he thought he left Ivo in. His breath came out raspy but he was encouraged by the sight of the city, that remained in view every time Tomoya glanced over his shoulder.

He almost tripped over Ivo’s body, so small and curled up on the sand. The boy didn’t react when Tomoya’s sandals accidentally connected with his back, and showed no signs of life when Tomoya hissed his name excitedly. He remained slack on the ground, eyes closed, face covered in dirt. But he was breathing.

“Come on you stubborn bastard,” Tomoya gritted and knelt by the blond. He didn’t know how he did it or where he found the strength to but somehow he managed to manoeuvre Ivo onto his back, pulling the boy’s limp body against him. The boy was heavy, his body lifeless, forcing Tomoya to take all of his weight. The Mairi focused on getting the task done, trying to ignore his pangs of hunger and exhaustion as he looped Ivo’s thin arms around his neck from the back. They hung there loosely when Tomoya released them in favour of reaching behind him and grabbing Ivo under his knees. He stood up shakily, forcefully keeping Ivo’s legs wrapped around his waist from behind. The blond was slumped forward, cheek pressed against Tomoya’s shoulder, and the ex-Guardian had to re-adjust him before he began his walk.

It was agonizing. It reminded Tomoya of the times when he was a young boy at the Wall, forced to stand on top of it with heavy rocks tied around his neck as punishment. If he lost his balance he would be sent over the edge of the Wall, down into the endless mist below. Back then Tomoya had to swallow down his fear, and now he swallowed down his exhaustion too. He put one foot in the other, ignoring the cries of his muscles and the aching of his bones. His eyes were focused on the lights ahead, and they blurred as he walked. Making it alone would have been hard, making it with an unconscious boy on his back was close to impossible – so why had Tomoya gone back for Ivo?

“Come on,” the man gasped to himself, breathing hard, face flushed with exertion, “Just one more step.” After long, endless minutes his walking turned into shuffling and yet the city seemed nowhere nearer. The lights had turned to blobs as Tomoya’s eyes watered with tiredness.

His eyes rolled back and he finally passed out, crumpling like a piece of paper and hitting the sand. Thankfully it softened his fall, not that the ex-Guardian could even feel it. His body laid limply on the ground and the wind picked up, brushing sand into his hair as if it wanted to bury him beneath its golden plains.

Ivo laid askew across Tomoya’s back. He had been fading in and out of consciousness and was now aware of the man’s body beneath him though he couldn’t bring himself to care enough to do anything about it, content to fade away into nothingness. That was when he felt the gentle fingers across his face, the breath of a different kind of warmth than the heat of the desert – the breath smelled like flowers and icy morning air. It smelled like home.

Ivo sat up as if he had been struck by lightning, shocked and wide awake, eyes bulging. His heart pounded and he looked around wildly but there was nobody there except Tomoya, laying face down in the sand. The blond’s green eyes landed on the lights – they were so close. Where had they come from? Ivo strained and he heard distant sounds of music, so soft they might have just been grains of sand shifting. But the beaming light of the city were vibrantly clear. _Real._

“Tommy!” Ivo grinned and shook the ex-Guardian, who shifted across the sand like a dry fish, “Tommy we made it!”

Tomoya didn’t react but adrenaline surged within Ivo – hope returned; not everything was lost, not yet. Urged on by the same invisible force that had jerked him out of his slumber, Ivo climbed to his feet and pulled Tomoya up. The man was delirious, mumbling something under his breath but he half-stood up by himself, leaning heavily into Ivo. The blond pulled his arm around his shoulders and it felt like a heavy sack as it laid there but the boy just gritted his teeth and headed for the lights.

It was harder than he thought it would be as he virtually had to haul Tomoya through the desert, the man’s feet dragging along and slowing them down. In minutes sweat had broken out across the blond’s brow and dripped down his face as his breath came out heavy and laboured; Tomoya was heavy, and Ivo was more on the lithe side, with little strength to carry him though he knew if he put the ex-Guardian down the chances of getting him back up were slim. So Ivo ignored the aches of pain going through his back as best as he could and pushed his exhaustion aside, focusing on the target ahead.

 _Step. Breathe. Step. Breathe._ The lights blurred into soft golden spots, but Ivo didn’t stop walking, detaching himself from his pain. He heard music and didn’t know if he was imagining it or if it was coming from the city.

The two frenzied travellers bypassed the wall enclosing Cheri with neither of them noticing. Rising, dark sand dunes gave way to white sandstone buildings with golden domed roofs and glassless arched windows. The architecture was very similar to Shariba, though here there was no spacious, exotic markets and no silk sashes hanging between windows. Instead, the streets were filled with people, crowds so dense it was almost impossible to slide into it. The hoards of people shifted through the narrow streets, heading towards a place Ivo didn’t know, where the thrumming, deep music was coming from – it was clear now that it was real music, and not a figment of the Dukkosh’s imagination. Festivities took place in every house, with doors and windows thrown open in a welcoming fashion, urging strangers off the streets and into the buildings where heavily jewelled men and women sat on thick pillows at windowsills, slowly draining goblets of spiced wine, safe from the dancers and pick-pockets that slipped through the crowds outside and allowing for cover from the young women who rained rice down onto the passersby from the upper windows, their giggles carried by the warm night air.

The laughter, music, dancing and chaos made Ivo’s head spin. He suddenly entered a whole new world, so starkly different from the dark isolation of the desert, and his senses were overwhelmed.

He managed to drag Tomoya past the city walls but his strength left him very quickly and he clumsily lowered the ex-Guardian’s body onto the ground by what appeared to be a free house, judging by the group of young naked boys lounging on the upstairs balcony, throwing dates at each other. Tomoya slumped against the wall of the building, eyes closed. His pale cheeks were flushed pink and some of his long hair had escaped his neat braid, clinging to his sweaty face. He mumbled something under his breath and Ivo looked around wildly, hoping to find somebody that would help them. Apart from a few puzzled looks, nobody reacted to the dirty, half-alive men sitting by a free house. All the faces looked the same, dark and shadowy, and the voices that called out to each other spoke a foreign, strange language.

Tears of helplessness gathered in Ivo’s eyes. _What now?_ Tomoya was the one with the plan and without him Ivo felt lost and terrified. He couldn’t leave him, but he also didn’t know where to go. He swayed on his feet. He could smell the spicy scent of Shairin food, and his cracked lips yearned for water, but he didn’t speak the language and didn’t know how to ask for anything. He didn’t even know if they were in Cheri, or if they had gotten lost and ended up in a different city entirely.

 _Get yourself together._ Ivo straightened up. Now was his time to prove that he wasn’t useless. He turned to Tomoya, still unconscious and slumped against the wall. For a moment Ivo hesitated, then squatted next to him uncertainly.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he breathed, and Tomoya frowned but didn’t wake. Ivo stood up, flooded by a new sense of purpose that chased away the exhaustion for a few more crucial moments; if Tomoya was useless, then Ivo would take charge.

Two drunk women stumbled up the short steps and into the free house, arms linked and laughing into each other’s mouths, and Ivo used them as encouragement, forcing himself to follow them inside. The interior was dark and smoky, like every other interior in the Empire seemed to be. Ivo barely spared the large downstairs room a glance, seeing the usual drinking, gambling and wandering hands that were a common sight in these places. He stuck to the shadows, comforted by the darkness, and his sharp eyes quickly picked out vulnerable spots. For a moment, while by Tomoya’s side, he had forgotten he was a thief.

A group of elderly men and women were sat by a low circular table, clearly intoxicated with their bodies turned away from their table to listen to one of the neighbouring women who was loudly telling a story, seemingly attempting to shout over the deep, relaxing music of the free house in her lyrical Airyan speech, dark hands covered in golden bracelets moving animatedly. None of her listeners were paying attention to the table or its contents; there were purses, visibly full of gold, but more importantly there were cups full of wine and plates of half-eaten food. Ivo’s heart started to pound but he was like a spirit, his pale hand sneaking from the shadows to grab a goblet and a charred piece of bread.

He could have taken more; he could have taken the money. But time was precious and the boy was petrified that if he left Tomoya alone for too long the man would die or disappear of abandon him. The decisions from the desert to leave the ex-Guardian had dispersed by now, and Ivo couldn’t bear to be alone. So he clutched his stolen food and drink to his chest and dashed back outside, heart on his shoulder. He was ridiculously relieved to see that his companion had not moved, or woken.

“Tommy,” Ivo didn’t bother climbing down the steps of the inn and jumped down instead, careful not to spill the wine, “Tommy wake up!”

He knelt by the ex-Guardian once more, ignoring the curious looks he got from the people climbing up the stairs to the free house. With a trembling, dirty hand the blond lifted the goblet to Tomoya’s cracked, parted lips.

“Come on,” he whispered urgently, pressing the cup against Tomoya’s teeth, “Drink you stubborn bastard.”

A line of wine trickled down the man’s sharp jaw and Ivo was so parched he almost leaned forward and licked it off. Thankfully the feeling of the liquid against his lips pulled Tomoya out of his half-conscious delirium and he grasped the goblet weakly, his throat moving as he eagerly chugged down the wine, eyes still closed. Ivo breathed a sigh of relief but didn’t release the goblet, his hands pressed against Tomoya’s as he drank. The blond didn’t even feel angry when Tomoya finished the wine with no regard for his companion.

The ex-Guardian’s eyes cracked open. He barely registered Ivo, “Where are we?” he asked hoarsely.

“Cheri,” Ivo said, “I think. Can you get up?”

The wine wasn’t much but it gave Tomoya the push he needed, drew him away from the edge somewhat. Everything remained hazy around the edges, but with the help of Ivo the Mairi managed to stand up. The music and bright lights blurred into one and he was barely aware of Ivo wrapping an arm around his waist to steady him.

“We need to find someplace to stay,” the blond told him, and Tomoya didn’t respond. The blond left the bread on the ground – Tomoya didn’t look like he had the strength to eat and Ivo’s mouth was so dry the thought of chewing made him nauseous; he suddenly regretted giving Tomoya the wine first as his throat begged to be soothed with liquid.

In an attempt to forget his woes, Ivo began to blindly walk, allowing the crowd to pull him and Tomoya along. The ex-Guardian had regained enough strength to walk alone but he still had to lean on Ivo for support and with each step the blond felt his own power depleting. His eyes felt heavy, and his head spun.

The more buildings they passed, the louder the music got, and Tomoya thought he must be experiencing some sort of psychedelic dream, and that any moment he’d wake up and still be in the desert.

“Tommy,” Ivo huffed, “Look for an inn, a brothel, _anything_ with a bed. I don’t know what any of this means.”

Tomoya looked around. His tired eyes picked out the cursive, intertwined letters of Airyan hanging above doorways – there were smoke-rooms and pleasure-rooms and public houses and-

He didn’t have to search long; there it was. _Thaba._ The Airyan word for ‘inn.’

 “There,” Tomoya pointed with a shaky hand. Why did Ivo need an inn again? He couldn’t remember...

The blond had to leave Tomoya on the doorstep again; the ex-Mairi was just too heavy and clumsy to carry inside. The little blond himself had to squeeze past the patrons of the inn, crowding the doorway with their loud boisterous laughter and cups full of liquid that Ivo’s body ached for. Somehow the Dukkosh managed to shove his way through the mob that filled the downstairs of the inn, and made it to the bar area.

“Sir!” he called to a short, squat man in a turban who was glaring at two other men having a loud argument across the polished wooden bar, “Sir!” Ivo called again, and the innkeepers beady eyes turned to him. He raised an eyebrow and barked something in Airyan, and Ivo just gushed out, “Sir _please,_ we need a room, is there one free?”

The innkeeper snorted and replied in a sneering, taunting voice.

Ivo puffed his cheeks out in frustration, not understanding a word, “Please,” he urged, “My friend isn’t well, we’ve walked through the desert-“

The innkeeper lost interest and turned back to the brawl. Anger crept up Ivo’s body, “Hey!” he shouted, “Don’t be so fucking rude!”

The innkeeper barked a half-arsed swear-word at him. Tears of frustration prickled Ivo’s eyes and he turned away, fuming. He felt so desperate he almost curled up on the ground and fell asleep. Why was everything going so wrong? The direness of the situation settled on the blond and he choked back a sob, surrounded by celebrating Shairin, none of which paid attention to him. Even if Ivo knew Airyan and could ask for a room, the chances of him getting one for free were nonexistent and he and Tomoya had lost all their money to the Sand Pirates. They’d have to sleep on the street, unless someone took pity on them and allowed Ivo to suck their cock for a room, which was highly unlikely considering the tattered state the blond was in.

It appeared that finding Cheri wasn’t the happy ending Ivo had expected.

Tomoya watched the waves of people walk past him, eyes half-closed, trying to remain conscious. His limbs felt heavy. He was with someone, he was sure of that, but who? He was sitting on a doorstep. He looked up every time someone exited the building he was sat outside of, but nobody looked like _him._ Who? There was someone with him, someone travelling, someone with golden hair, someone he was angry with...did he leave them in the desert? He’d have to go back and get them... _who..._ a boy? A girl? So many questions spinning around his throbbing brain...

_Desert. I left him._

Tomoya struggled to his feet and looked around dully, body moving on its own accord as his mind shut down from exhaustion. He took a wobbly step towards the throng of people zooming past, and a hand shot out to steady him. A girl’s hand, delicate, the colour of copper.

“You alright there, friend?” she asked sweetly. Her face appeared in front of Tomoya, but it was blurry and hard to focus on. _Not her. Him._

“Have you seen him?” he asked hoarsely.

“Seen who?” came the confused response.

Tomoya frowned, “Who...?” he repeated in a mumble.

“Are you alright?” the girl questioned, “are you sick, or drunk? Actually, looking at you it seems you have been travelling. The Dalahari desert, perhaps? Do you need something to eat? I run an inn- well, _I_ don’t run it, my father does but he is away on business with my older brother so it is mine for now. Do you have money for a room?”

Tomoya barely registered what she was saying and it took a lot of effort to formulate a reply, “No,” his world swam, “My money...Miko’s money got taken...by pirates.”

“Ah. Sand Pirates. That’s unlucky,” the girl sounded sympathetic, “is Miko who you’re looking for?”

_Don’t be stupid. Two tugs, remember?_

Tomoya’s fingers clenched as if around a rope that wasn’t there. He swallowed, “No,” he said.

The girl sighed, “You’re clearly exhausted. I’m actually walking around in hopes of finding some workers to help me run my inn. The fortnight leading up to Prince Omarian’s wedding will be busy with tourists and I need extra hands, especially since my father and brother are away,” she laughed awkwardly, “I’m afraid I overestimated my ability to do it all by myself. I can offer you food and a room in the attic if you help with the inn.”

 _Food. Room._ Tomoya swallowed. The wine he had drank seemed like it had never happened. He nodded, and felt slim fingers sliding around his wrist. Slim fingers...who else had slim fingers? _He does. Where is he?_

“Alright, come along,” the girl said, and Tomoya felt a tug on his wrist. He clumsily took a step after the girl. _Two tugs, remember?_

“Ivo,” he breathed.

“Hmm?” the girl asked.

“Ivo. He...”

“Hey!” Ivo shouted from the doorway of the inn. Why in the _fuck_ was there a girl trying to abduct Tomoya?! In seconds Ivo was by them, and snatching his companion’s hand out of hers, “Leave him alone, we don’t have any money!”

The girl looked bewildered, eyes wide. Upon further inspection she didn’t look like she was trying to hurt Tomoya; she was curvy but short, the same height as Ivo, which chin length brown hair only one shade darker than her skin, and deep chocolate-coloured eyes. Her nose was straight and slightly hooked, and her lips were plump and painted a deep crimson. She was pretty, in an unconventional way, which only fuelled Ivo’s anger.

“My apologies,” she took a step back and looked at Tomoya, “I meant no harm.”

“Ivo,” Tomoya breathed, looking down at the blond. He felt relieved now that he was back.

“Are you an idiot?! Don’t just go walking off with strangers, asshole! What is she saying?” the blond demanded.

“She wants to give us a room,” Tomoya replied clumsily in Dukkosh, “for free.”

“That’s suspicious,” Ivo decided.

“Suspicious?” Tomoya slurred in Airyan. The girl sighed.

“Look,” she glanced between Tomoya and Ivo, “I don’t know what your little blond friend is saying, but I’m not trying to trick you or anything. My name is Arkana Hassaa, and my father runs the Al-Salana Inn. I really just need help, it’s all awfully overwhelming and I’ve been left to run it alone for the first time so _please,”_ she looked pleadingly at Tomoya, “You can bring your friend, I promise I mean you no harm. If it means anything I also like to help people, and you two look like you need a lot of help.”

“Come on,” Tomoya mumbled to Ivo, who was still glaring heatedly at the girl – Arkana.

“I don’t trust her.”

“I’m going to collapse,” Tomoya said, “She’ll give us food and water and a room,” clarity shone through his dizziness, but it was still hard for him to piece his surroundings together. He, Ivo and Arkana might have as well been standing in a void.

“Fine,” Ivo gritted.

The trio weaved through the crowded city, and had it not been for Arkana the men would have lost themselves in the many winding and intertwined alleys of Cheri. It was dark, and the night was cooler, the saltiness of the sea could be detected in the sticky air. The festivities filled the city with music and threw fantastical colours onto the walls of the buildings. Arkana kept glancing behind her to ensure the two strangers were following – perhaps she had made a mistake, asking them to come back. But it was incredibly hard to run the inn alone, with just the help of her younger siblings. The nineteen-summer old girl thought she would manage alone, and yet the influx of travellers coming to Hadia to celebrate the engagement of their Prince had proved overwhelming, and she did not want to disappoint her father. Maybe employing two stranglers was a bad idea, but as Arkana glanced back at them she couldn’t help but feel compassionate. They looked exhausted; the taller, bigger one with long black hair could barely walk alone and yet the small blond managed to drag him on; Arkana wondered what their relationship was. They were dirty, stank and yet they had somehow made it across the Dalahari desert and survived the Sand Pirates. Clearly God was looking out for them, and Arkana decided it was her duty to ensure that these two boys didn’t die tonight.

When she rounded another familiar corner the Al-Sahana Inn came into view. Arkana breathed a sigh of relief; the building was still standing, and there were still crowds pouring in and out of the front door. Somehow her siblings had managed to keep everything under control, or so she hoped.

“Here, this way,” she ushered the two travellers towards the inn, up the four sandstone steps that led to the door-less entrance, and inside. She had to elbow some big, drunk men out of the way but the three of them made it to the back somehow, ducking beneath a cloth-covered arch and into the kitchen.

“Ark!” the yelp of relief and delight welcomed the girl home. She looked around the kitchen, where a big pot of stew was bubbling over glowing embers, and where the two girls whom her father employed were re-filling their flagons with spiced wine from huge barrels. Two children picked themselves up from where they had been stirring the stew with a huge wooden stick and barrelled right at Arkana. She stumbled back when they slammed against her legs, hugging her tightly.

“We thought you wouldn’t come back!” ten-summer-old Khadi wailed, his chubby, dark face twisting as his eyes brimmed with tears.

“I was only gone for a minute,” Arkana gently ruffled the thick black curls of her little brother.

“It seemed like ages!” Nehane, his twin sister, disputed, mouth in a thin line, “it’s loud and scary without you.”

“When’s papa coming back?” Khadi whined.

“Shush, you two,” Arkana gently peeled her siblings away from her, “We have an inn to run. Have you been taking payments?”

Nehane nodded dutifully, “Yes, everyone’s paid. If anybody hasn’t paid I haven’t seen it.”

Arkana smiled, a little amused, “Good job, you two.”

Khadi peeked around her leg and his brows furrowed, “W-Who is that?” he hiccupped.

For a moment Arkana had forgotten about the two strangers she had brought in and now she whirled around, suddenly afraid that perhaps they would steal something, or hurt her. But they were just leaning against the wall, the blond still holding up the taller one. Arkana exhaled, and the help-girls walked out of the kitchen, sparing them merely a glance.

“They’re here to help until papa gets back,” Arkana told her siblings carefully, then turned to the travellers, more importantly to the one from the Mairi Empire, since he understood Airyan, “What are your names, I never asked?”

The blond looked at her blankly confirming her suspicion he didn’t understand her language. She couldn’t place where he was from; with the pale hair and skin he was definitely not Shairin, and he lacked the dark hair and almond-shaped eyes of the Mairi, or the chocolate skin of the Voubren. He could have been Dreiyard or Dukkosh or Beau or even Odelian.

“I’m Tomoya,” the Mairi’s eyes were half closed, “this is Ivo. He doesn’t speak Airyan.”

“I gathered.”

“Arkana!” one of the help-girls poked her head through the curtain, “there’s a brawl! We need you.”

“Here,” Arkana felt a headache coming on, “Khadi take our guests to the attic room and give them something to eat, I need to attend to the patrons. In the morning we’ll talk again.”

Ivo’s stomach didn’t feel so good but perhaps that was because he had eaten and drank much too quickly. He didn’t even know what the food he had shovelled into his mouth was, but he was grateful for it as he ate it in the kitchen of the inn, sat on the dusty floor beside Tomoya who was also wolfing down his meal. The little boy, Arkana’s brother Khadi, sat opposite them, leaning against the wall and looking at them uncertainly as if he was afraid of them.

After they were done eating he snuck them out of the kitchen like a mouse, and Ivo glimpsed the inside of the busy inn; it was divided into two parts, with the ground floor being filled with people standing and drinking, while a few short steps let to an upper podium, on which there were travellers lounging on huge pillow, smoking something out of clay pots using long straw-like devices – Ivo was shocked at the mixture of different people, different clothing styles and hair colour and skin shades, but after all Cheri was a seaside town, full of merchants. Everything smelled like saffron and cinnamon, and it was hard to see through the veil of smoke.

A narrow staircase hugged the back wall, hidden in shadows. Khadi climbed up in hurriedly and with the ease of someone who had done it countless times before. Ivo had to feel out the steps with his feet to ensure he didn’t fall in the dark while Tomoya clumsily followed behind no longer leaning against his companion but rather against the wall. They climbed up several of these staircases, until they reached a tapering corridor with no windows, and walls rougher than elsewhere in the inn. Khadi had led them to the end of the corridor where a wooden door awaited leading to Tomoya’s and Ivo’s room. It was small, as expected, with a glassless oval window in one of the walls, covered only by a thin, see-through sheet of fabric through which moon-rays slipped inside the room. When Khadi lit a candle suspended from the ceiling in a long, golden lamp, Ivo saw a wooden chest in one corner, a basin in the other, and a bed that looked barely big enough to fit him and Tomoya. The room was dusty and clearly hadn’t been used for some time.

“Is this it?” the words slipped from Ivo’s mouth. Tomoya glared at him, though not as sharply as he normally did, and thanked Khadi in Airyan; thankfully the child hadn’t understood Ivo’s rudeness and seemed more than pleased to leave the room, though he quickly returned with armfuls of feather pillows and sheets that were almost bigger than him.

That had happened half an hour ago. Since then Ivo had stripped off his dirty clothing until he was naked and climbed under the sheets and passed out, and Khadi had left. Tomoya felt more awake and alert thanks to the food and water, but he was still exhausted. He didn’t want to go to bed, however, not until he scrubbed himself clean of the goddamned sand that seemed to be _everywhere._ He wanted to forget the desert. He sat cross-legged by the basin and washed himself with the cloth until the water turned murky. He had no spare clothes so he also stripped to his undergarments before climbing onto the bed, much too tired to think about the situation – he was unsure how or why he and Ivo were in this inn, and in that moment he didn’t care. He took a pillow and laid so his head was by the blond’s feet, and then listened to his even breathing for a little while. The festivities downstairs seemed to fade away.

**The following morning. Late autumn.**

**Cervantes, Adanard, Beavnird.**

**The North Islands.**

****

It was a chilly, sunny morning, perfect for making potions outside in the fire pit rather than inside Callian’s hut. As much as he loved being alone in his home, he also loved nature and fresh air, and the perks of waking up at dawn were that he was all alone, the other huts dark and quiet – even the village elders were nowhere to be seen.

Cal had his cauldron bubbling happily over the heat as he sat on a stone bench just beside it, a sheep-skin thrown over his shoulders to keep away the chill of the autumn morning – the sun was just beginning to peek shyly over the mountains.

Ogma was curled up in Cal’s lap beneath the sheep-skin, clearly not appreciating the cold as much as his master did; the huge wildcat was heavy but Cal wasn’t complaining, alternating between stirring the pot with a wooden ladle and stroking his guardian behind his pointy ears. Today he was making a healing potion for the cold several children had caught playing by the sea, a simple mixture of honey, mead, ginger and garlic, one of the first he had learned when he became Maganna’s apprentice. As he stirred the potion, he contemplated how to settle the dispute between Arryn from his village, and Badomir from Seur, their neighbouring village, as they were in a dispute about a patch of land by the Lena river. Maganna had delegated the task of addressing the issue to Cal as she had been feeling poorly recently, and now Cal wondered if he’d have to travel to Seur, which was only an hour’s walk upriver, to negotiate with their druid, or if he’d manage to do it from his hut.

Bris padded out of Cal’s hut, a few stems of dried thyme in her mouth. Callian smiled as she came to him and dropped them in his outstretched hand.

“Thankyou, girl,” Cal said fondly, “You’re a good cat, aren’t you?”

Bris blinked at him knowingly and then curled up at his feet. Callian rubbed the thyme between his palms until the stems flaked and then sprinkled them into the cauldron. He’d have to wait for the potion to thicken some, and then it would be ready to give to the children.

Suddenly Airmid, who had been sitting and watching the flames beneath the cauldron, twitched and turned his head. Callian frowned, “What is it, boy?” he asked. Usually Airmid was the most instinctive one as the Alpha of the pack and could tell when danger was approaching. Callian tensed, but the wildcat turned his head back to the warmth of the fire and closed his eyes again. Cal relaxed, “Gods, don’t scare me like that, Air.”

Still, someone was coming. Cal watched between the two huts closest to him, and sure enough a few seconds later two blonde women appeared. Anxiety flickered in Cal’s stomach. _Oh no,_ he thought, and nudged Ogma off his lap. The big cat jumped to the ground and gave Cal a hurt look that the druid ignored.

“Good morning, Callian!” Feona Gallobhair called cheerfully, waving at Cal as if they were best friends; she was fully dressed in black breeches and a green cloak, and the half of her head on which she had hair was braided – it was bizarre to see her up this early since she, like her brother, liked to sleep till noon. Her younger sister trotted behind her timidly, lifting her grey dress so that it didn’t trail in the mud, and smiled shyly at the druid when she reached him.

“Good morning,” she said sweetly, “What are you making?”

“It’s a potion for the ill children,” Cal mumbled, wondering if he should get up. _No._ The two were the daughters of the village chief, but Cal was a druid, and held the same status as them. _Don’t be intimidated._

“Right, right,” Feona clearly wasn’t interested in Cal’s job, and Cal assumed neither was Wynna, she was just being polite. But Feona was like her brother Roan, brisk and to the point. And usually not up so early, which made her more grouchy, “You know why I’m here, bonfire.”

“Don’t call me that,” Cal winced. Feona was frightening with her half-shaved head and mischievous eyes. She looked too much like Roan, but had a sharp tongue and quick wit that her brother lacked. Wynna on the other hand clearly felt awkward in the situation because she knelt by Bris, careful not to dirty her dress, and started to stroke the cat’s fur. Bris liked Wynna, so she allowed it.

“So...,” Feona prompted, eyebrow raised, “You and Roan?”

“No,” Cal said bluntly – they have had this conversation countless times before.

“Oh, Callian!” Wynna gushed, looking up from Bris, voice breathless and face flushed pink, “I was meaning to ask you! Could you make me a love potion? I was going to ask Maganna but...well...she frightens me. And you...,” she trailed off, biting her lip.

 _I don’t get what Aeth sees in her._ Cal tried not to feel irritated at the request. He and the sisters weren’t friends, but he also had the duty of performing tasks for the villagers. At times like this it frustrated him, since he felt as if people didn’t see him as a human being, simply a druid that could do favours for them. Callian was painfully aware that it was his only use though, and without it the villagers wouldn’t even know his name.

“Love potions aren’t a joke, Wynna. They’re serious and _dangerous.”_

“Oh,” the girl’s expression fell, and she blushed harder, “R-Right, I was just asking...”

“Alright!” Feona called loudly and clapped her hands, probably waking up Cal’s neighbours, “Let’s cut the bullshit, shall we? Wynnie, you know why we’re here, stop getting distracted.”

“S-Sorry,” Wynna mumbled and stood up, brushing invisible dirt off her skirt – Bris stood and rubbed herself against the girl’s leg. Cal stirred his potion, staring at it intently and wishing he could drown in it.

“How long are you going to keep this up?” Feona demanded, crossing her arms over her chest, “how long are you going to hold onto that stupid grudge of yours? It’s getting really fucking tiring, Cinnéide.”

“However long it takes,” Cal replied sharply.

“It was a stupid joke he made _years_ ago.”

“I don’t _care,”_ Cal snarled. He felt the eyes of the sisters on him, as well as the eyes of his wildcats, seeming to reprimand him for being stubborn. It felt horrible, like it was Callian against the world. He felt a blush rise to his cheeks, “I would never be with someone as insolent as Roan, a-and I am not attracted to him a-and...,” he swallowed and turned away, burning with embarrassment. He had already said too much.  

“You’re a really bad liar for a druid,” Feona snorted.

“Are you done insulting me or was there something you wanted?” Callian asked coldly, collecting himself. Feona sighed, not intimidated at all.

“We didn’t mean any harm, Callian,” Wynna said shyly, wringing her hands together, “I just think it would be awfully romantic if you and Ro would be together. I think you look so good together, maybe you could even marry...,” her voice was dreamy.

“Don’t be stupid, Wynnie,” Feona groaned, “We’ve been through this. Marriage is weird. Are we fucking Beaus to be stuck with one person for all our lives?”

 _She’s right. Wynna’s a goddamn romantic._ Cal wanted to be left alone; Wynna was just making everything so much worse. Marriage was a painful subject for Callian, and something he secretly yearned for. But Feona was right – the Dreiyards married very, very rarely.

“You’re being stupid and unrealistic,” Cal said bluntly, as if trying to convince himself that the notion was idiotic.

Feona glared, “Hey, watch your mouth when you speak to my sister, _druid.”_

There was bite in her words. A chill settled in Cal – it was always like this; the villagers would greet him and be kind and welcoming when they needed something, but the moment Cal was no longer of use to them they’d turn cold again. And always, _always,_ he was just a fucking druid. Just someone with a pair of magic hands, who was good for nothing more.

“Fuck off, Feona,” Cal didn’t even have the energy to fight her, he just felt tired and his day was now ruined. The girl huffed something under her breath but turned on her heel and stormed off, clearly angry. Wynna looked torn for a moment, looking after her older sister, and then glanced at Cal. The druid helped her make her decision, “you go too, Wynna.”

The girl’s eyes were glassy as if she was about to cry, “He really does love you, Callian,” she mumbled, then picked up her skirts and ran after her sister, shouting her name.

Cal hugged himself and looked at his potion. Too much had evaporated – he had been distracted and made a beginner’s mistake. His nose was runny from the cold and he sniffled. Something wet fell on his freckled forehead and he looked up at the grey sky – clouds had gathered, it would rain soon. The beauty of the morning dispersed as reality set in.

“Fuck,” Cal breathed.

A grunt sounded to Callian’s left and the boy flinched, looking up to see a huge stag standing just a few feet away between the trees; he had come silent and undetected. Cal’s heart skipped a beat.

“Gwydion,” he said, and the spirit guardian’s wise eyes looked into his, “What is it?” Callian asked as his cats slinked towards the stag, nuzzling his legs, “Is it Maganna? Has she sent for me?”

Naturally the guardian didn’t reply, turning slowly and trotting out into the forest that was just a few feet away, behind Cal’s hut. The young druid wanted a home away from others, at the edge of the village, but Maganna truly wanted isolation to feel closer to nature and her own hut was a short walk away, enveloped in the forest. That was where Gwydion led Cal now. The druid stepped over roots and shrubbery as he walked down the familiar path, his own guardians weaving themselves between his and Gwydion’s legs. With every step the sky seemed to darken, and a painful feeling grew in Cal’s gut – something was wrong, otherwise Gwydion would not have come to get him.

Maganna’s hut emerged from the greenery, eerily silent. It was small, with a thatched roof and a stone chimney that spurted out a ribbon of silvery smoke, its walls encrusted in intertwining vines that made it blend into its surroundings – if you didn’t know it was there, you would bypass it. There were no windows, and Gwydion as well as Cal’s wildcats stopped outside the door, which was wooden and had a complicated symbol painted on it with the same blue paint that warriors used to paint their faces when they went raiding. It was also cracked open. Callian glanced at the guardians, who all looked grave, and then swallowed down his anxiety and ducked inside.

He had been in this oval room, so similar to his in its treasury of manuscripts and ceiling of herbs, many times, and yet now he felt startled and out of place for it was filled with people; Beorthion, the chief, was there, as well as a dozen of the best warriors and elders. They all turned to look at Cal when he walked in and a hush fell over them. They parted like the ocean, and Cal felt nauseous as he tried to keep his composure, walking through the man-made tunnel that led him to Maganna’s bed.

The old druid laid on a mountains of pillows and furs, right by the fireplace which crackled cheerfully. Yet even the warm light of the fire couldn’t chase away the paleness of her face, the deepness of her wrinkles, or the glassy look in her eyes. Her grey hair was laid out around her in waves that reminded Cal of the winter sea and she was dressed in a white night-shift. Cal had never seen her look so vulnerable or fragile. Orena stood by her side, face unreadable, hands clasped in front of her. Her bizarre, two coloured eyes, one pale grey and one dark brown, stared intensely at Cal.

“Good,” Maganna croaked, looking at Cal tiredly, “You’re here. Leave us.”

With respectful murmurs the rest of the people exited the hut, shutting the door behind them. Callian didn’t like the solemn atmosphere, or how weak and sickly Maganna was looking. This was not the powerful head druid that Cal had been afraid of and admired for so many years, and it made his hair stand on end. He felt uncomfortable with Maganna and Orena both staring at him, as if they knew something he didn’t, and he was about to ask what was happening, but the head druid spoke first.

“I am dying,” she said.

It was a simply statement of fact ,devoid of any emotion, of any fear or regret or sadness. Cal tried to ask a question – what question he didn’t know himself – but when he tried to speak he found he couldn’t. Shock made his body freeze, and the flames in the fire might have as well not been burning for it was so cold. It seemed so sudden, and so final. Callian frowned, tried to gather his thoughts, opened and closed his mouth like a fish gasping for water. Orena stood motionless and silent, offering him no comfort.

“That is all,” Maganna said.

“A-All?” Cal finally managed to choke out.

“I am old, my young prodigy, and druids are not immortal,” she closed her eyes and settled back against the bed, “I have prepared you both for this. When I pass the ritual will be held and one of you will become the next head druid, and life will go on.”

“B-But-,” Cal couldn’t comprehend how Maganna was so calm about all of this. Only five days ago she had been strong and powerful as she married Darwanna and Uliah, and Cal had believed that her paleness in the following days had been a mere chill she caught from the sea. He had been wrong, “But what about you- how long until you die?!”

“Compose yourself,” Orena said quietly. Callian gritted his teeth – he was the only emotional one here, and he was reacting like a child – he had to prove he was worthy of being the next head druid. But it was _hard._ Maganna was the closest thing to family he had and seeing her like this, weak and bed-bound, was painful.

“How long until you d-die?” he repeated in a whisper, voice trembling slightly. A shadow of a smile appeared on Maganna’s face, as if the sentiment of Cal’s voice was something heart-warming.

“Even I don’t know that, young one. Now, I must rest.”

“Is there anything we can do?” Orena asked.

Maganna shook her head, “No. Sere came to me in a dream. I will be dead by spring, maybe even before winter settles in.”

When Callian left the hut he was in a daze. Lazy drops of water fell from the heavy clouds, splattering against the leaves of the trees, but the real rain hadn’t begun yet. Cal didn’t even flinch as the droplets landed on his face, he just hugged himself and blindly walked towards his own hut, his feet taking him back by memory. Orena had taken a different route, clearly not wanting to be close to Cal right now. His wildcats walked alongside him though, meowing at him questioningly, but he was too shocked to explain to them what had happened. He had a feeling they knew anyway .He dragged his feet and tried to arrange his thoughts, but they just kept going around in an infuriating loop of _Maganna will die._

The time had come; if he wasn’t good enough to succeed her, there would be no place for him in Cervantes.

 


	9. Violence and Bitter Words You'll Regret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys so sorry about the slow replies but you know how it is :/  
> Hopefully soon the updates will be more frequent  
> Thanks so much for all the love xx

**Later that same morning. Halfway across the world. Late Summer, 212CE**

**The Al-Salana Inn, Cheri, Hadia.**

**The Shairin Empire**

****

When the heat pushing on his face got unbearable, Ivo finally opened his eyes. Confusion flooded him when he saw above him a rough sandstone ceiling and he tried frantically to remember where he was and how he got there. He couldn’t move; his muscles ached agonizingly as if he had twisted and bent his joints, and his mind reeled with memories of the previous night. The hubbub of outside life slipped inside the attic room as Cheri woke up and the sunshine of the morning intensified, forcing its way through the glass-less, curtain-less window and into the room to caress Ivo’s burnt face.

Finally the boy mustered up enough strength to sit up. He looked around the small, cluttered attic room in confusion, blinking sleep from his eyes. His pale hair was greasy and laid plastered to his head from the way he slept, and there was sand everywhere, including in his ears and between the sheets. The previous night was a blur; he remembered the desert, the lights of Cheri, the warmth of Tomoya leaning on him, the girl with the inn and-

_Tomoya._

Ivo’s heart jumped in his chest. He was alone in his room and his companion was nowhere to be seen, and unless he was hiding in the chest he was gone, though his dirty clothes were still in the corner of the room, tangled together. _Breathe,_ Ivo reminded himself as he threw the sheets aside, spilling sand everywhere, and climbed off the bed. His muscles screamed in protest and the boy let out a hiss of pain, rubbing his thighs. He felt as if he was one huge bruise. Still partially asleep the boy hobbled to the window and then quickly reeled back; he hadn’t realised how high up the attic was, and could see the city of Cheri peeking out from between the higher floors of surrounding buildings. Tentatively he gripped the makeshift windowsill and peeked over at the street below, where people the size of bugs were bustling about their day. Once again the day was hot, the blue sky cloudless. To the right the city stretched for miles, to the left Ivo could see the Dalahari desert beginning, and he shuddered. His heart skipped a beat when he glimpsed the sea, far in the distance – they had really made it. Ivo grinned, couldn’t help himself, and thought that he had to find Tomoya quickly and maybe they could get a ship... _what if he’s left?_ Ivo’s smile melted. He remembered his own delirious plans in the desert of abandoning his companion; what if Tomoya did it first? _Good riddance,_ Ivo told himself, but he couldn’t help the ache in his chest. Being abandoned hurt.

The door to the attic opened and Ivo whirled from the window.

“Tommy-“

He started breathlessly but stopped, because it wasn’t Tomoya in the door, but a little girl with long, wild black hair and bare feet. She had a pile of clothes in her hands, an apple resting on top of the pile. Ivo looked at her, she looked at Ivo. Finally the blond realised that he had seen this child the night before.

“Um...,” he swallowed and spoke in Kasha, “Hello.”

The girl didn’t say anything, just unceremoniously dropped the pile of clothes onto the unmade bed. They toppled sideways and unfolded, but the girl didn’t seem to care. She gave Ivo an unimpressed look and then stomped out of the room grumpily. When the door shut behind her Ivo hesitantly stepped away from the window and inspected the clothes that were clearly meant for him. There was a loose, short-sleeved beige tunic that looked a few sizes too big for Ivo, as well as a pair of deep blue trousers that puffed out at the calf in typical Shairin fashion. There were no shoes, however. Ivo looked at the water basin in the corner; he had a vague memory of Tomoya washing himself there the previous night, but if he had then the water had been replaced for it was sparkling and clean.

He exhaled. The realisation that he was safe settled over him, and he felt a sparkle of heat race up his spine, settling at the back of his neck and making warmth spread to the tips of his fingers. He knew the feeling, the familiar teasing touch of arousal, and decided that he didn’t know when he’d be in a bed again. Naked, he climbed onto the sheets and slid a hand south.

Ivo went downstairs not half of the hour later feeling more refreshed than he had in months. He had washed his hair and it had dried quickly in the heat of the late morning, now laying in a fluffy blond cloud against his brow. His skin remained sunburnt and grossly peeling, but was a few shades lighter upon being scrubbed clean of dirt and sand. Apart from his tattered sandals, Ivo was a new man. He walked downstairs full of hope, determinedly pushing Tomoya out of his mind in favour of embracing the sudden positive turn of fate – he didn’t need the ex-Guardian anyway, he’d find his own way home and at least he wouldn’t have to deal with having to find the Mairi a home.

Now that he was rested, Ivo could properly take in the inn in the warm daylight. The floor was covered in crimson and gold divans that were frayed at the edges and dotted with stains, but that still created a warm and homely affect. The long lamps that hung from the ceiling weren’t lit as plenty of light came in through the tall, arched windows that showed a view of the busy street. A few people were scattered around the low tables, though not many, pale-faced and nursing the consequences of the previous night’s endeavours over breakfast and goat’s milk.

The inn-keeper – Arkana - was sweeping, dressed in a yellow dress that touched the floor but had slits running all the way up to her waist, revealing her long, dark legs. Like the child from earlier, her feet were bare. Ivo hesitated on the stairs when he saw her, biting his lip. Somehow she sensed his presence though, because she looked up and smiled.

“Hello,” she said cheerfully. The blond stranger looked at her with uncertainty. Arkana leaned on her broom, “did you eat your apple?” naturally, Ivo didn’t understand, not that Arkana was overly bothered. She walked up to him and offered him the broom, and then watched as the boy’s facial expression changed comically from puzzlement to realisation to outrage.

“Do you take me for some servant?!” he demanded, “I may be a peasant but I won’t be cleaning your shit!”

Arkana blinked at him. She didn’t need to know his language to know that he wasn’t happy, and so she reached into a pouch tied around her waist and pulled out a copper coin. She held it out in her free hand, still offering the boy the broom. The blond blinked, then made an irritated noise before putting his pride aside and snatching up both the broom and the coin. Arkana smiled.

The heat of the sun was much more bearable beneath the shadows cast by the buildings of Cheri, Tomoya decided as he strolled down the dirt roads. Old women sat on the doorsteps of their homes, waving baskets and conversing, and the city bustled with life. When Tomoya looked up at the sky he couldn’t believe it was the same one he had glared at the day before; rested, fed and safe, he felt more appreciative of it. He felt even better because the air here was cooler, fresher, with a wild scent on it that Tomoya didn’t recognise but that he assumed was the sea – he could see it now as he trailed towards where Arkana had explained the harbour was, teasing glimpses of blue and silver between the roofs of the buildings.

Soon the houses and market stalls full of salty-smelling fish gave way to inns, and before Tomoya knew it, he was at the sea-front. He stood still and rigid, taking it in, overwhelmed. The sea was in front of him, stretching as far as he could see, calm and flat, the tops of the waves catching the sunlight. The roads faded into sand on which a large wooden pier was build, stretching to the both sides of Tomoya, like a wall guarding the shore of Cheri. Men and women fluttered about the shore, passing wooden barrels to each other, and stacking boxes of cargo in the sand. What was almost as impressive as the sea were the ships docked in the harbour and dotted among the nearby waters, so exotic and different from each other it felt as if Tomoya had stepped into a different world. Right in front of him was a medium sized Shairin ship, two decked with a fantastically carved stag at the bow. Right next to it was a small fisher-man’s boat, on which stood an angry-looking woman, shouting in Airyan to a man on the deck who shouted back with equal ferocity. There was a huge massive, elegant Beauralt ship with multiple sails rustling in the gentle breeze, the image of a skeletal king painted on them. Tomoya knew these ships and crest, had been taught about them at the wall; there on the end was a Dreiyard long-boat, curved and single-decked, agile and good for raiding, and next to it was an Odelian boat, with paddles rowing it slowly out of the harbour. There were no Mairi boats – those had been banned hundreds of years ago, when the paranoid, incestuous Hazaki-Xio dynasty came to power. Somehow that saddened Tomoya. When he was on the Wall he rarely spared a second thought to the world, focused only on the Shairin Empire as a potential threat. Now he was realising how isolated his home had been, cut off from the beauties of other kingdoms, living in eternal poverty and fear.

Tomoya blinked, returning to reality. The sun shone into his eyes and he mumbled a quick prayer of thanks to Taiyoo, for still being alive. He had to focus; he needed to find himself a ship, or he’d never get to Grudorin. The Shairin Empire, for all its beauty, was too deadly, and too close to the Wall for Tomoya’s comfort. He yearned to disappear from this half of the world.

His eyes landed on a man standing nearby, overseeing what appeared to be his crew loading crates onto a narrow boat with a curled prow. The man himself looked young, his skin tanned, dressed in a purple tunic. _Odelian then._

“Excuse me,” Tomoya approached him. The man glanced over him, and inclined his head before looking back at his ship.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, um, is this your ship?” Tomoya gestured at the vessel, clumsily pronouncing his words in Odelian. He had never been good at speaking this language.

“Yes. Why?”

“I was wondering how much it would cost for passage.”

The man raised an eyebrow, “Passage? Where you going, friend?”

“Uh...,” Ivo’s face flashed in Tomoya’s mind, “Grudorin.”

The man snorted, “No luck, friend, we’re just picking up supplies and going back to Itreoris. You’re best looking for a Dukkosh ship, though it doesn’t look like there are any in port today.”

“Oh,” Tomoya tried not to feel defeated, “Thank you.”

He walked away, and his eyes danced over all the ships swaying gently on the waves. It was just his rotten luck...it appeared he wasn’t leaving the Shairin Empire just yet. He sighed and looked out at the azure sea. His stomach rumbled – it was time to face Ivo.

By the time Tomoya returned to the Al-Sahana Inn he was dripping in sweat and the breeze of the sea was just a fond memory. Noon passed and the sun was at its most merciless, beating down on a lethargic Cheri; the streets quietened and calmed as people retreated to their homes or inns to eat a meal and have a siesta before the night’s celebrations begun.

The Al-Sahana Inn was full though, the air hot from the bodies crammed into the building. Tomoya was slightly overwhelmed when he walked in, and he saw Arkana and the flagon girls careering around, carrying platters of food high above their heads and shouting out orders. Arkana’s young siblings, Khadi and Nehane, were weaving themselves between the legs of patrons, picking up dirty plates and refilling cups.

“Tomoya!” Arkana spotted him and rushed towards him, grabbing his hands in hers, her cheeks flushed from exertion, “Thank God! Go to the kitchen and start bringing drinks out, we’re getting overwhelmed.”

In that moment she reminded him of Miko, overly energetic and often panicking over nothing. He squeezed her hands, “Calm down.”

She exhaled, then smiled, “Sorry. Right,” she tugged him in the general direction of the kitchen and then let go of his hands, “Go.”

She disappeared into the loud crowd and Tomoya followed her instructions – he felt better now that he knew what he had to do; making decisions alone wasn’t a strong point of his. He ducked under the curtain and found himself in the room he vaguely remembered from the previous night; somehow the curtain muffled the shouts and laughter of the main room of the inn.

Ivo was stood by a huge cauldron, mixing its contents with a stick. The sight of him here startled Tomoya, for he had forgotten for a moment the boy existed. The previous day was like a dream. The Dukkosh looked out of place in his oversized Shairin clothing, an orange scarf tied around his head, keeping most of his hair out of his face but allowing for a few blond tufts to escape. He had washed, and he was paler and blonder than Tomoya remembered. His intense green eyes were the same though as they looked up and landed on Tomoya. They widened, and Ivo let go of the stick.

“Tomoya,” he breathed, voice dripping with relief and shock. Then Ivo rushed towards him, faster than Arkana had, but before he could barrel into Tomoya he seemed to stop himself forcefully as if he had slammed into an invisible wall, and he just stood there, still staring as if not quite sure that Tomoya was real. The ex-Guardians heart skipped a beat, because for a second it had seemed like Ivo was going to embrace him.

Then the boy’s face twisted in anger, “What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?!”

“Uh...,” Tomoya was confused, “Arkana sent me here to carry drinks?”

Ivo glared at him, then stalked back to his cauldron, aggressively mixing the contents with more strength than needed, sloshing spiced wine over the side. Tomoya didn’t understand his sudden mood change.

“What did I do?” he asked.

“Had a nice walk then?” Ivo barked. Tomoya frowned, already beginning to feeling irritated. Ivo always got under his skin.

“I was trying to find us a ship to take us back to Grudorin, for your information.”

“Would have been nice if you had let me know!” Ivo spat, “instead of leaving me in this shithole with people who speak gibberish! I thought you just up and left, and forgot our agreement.”

“Why are you such a prick?” Tomoya asked harshly, “I was doing you a favour, letting you sleep in!”

Ivo’s eyes narrowed, “Whatever,” he spat, “you have a job to do, don’t you? Then do it.”

Tomoya wanted to scream in frustration, but instead he just snatched up the closest flagon full of wine and walked out into the main inn, forcing himself to calm down and remembering exercises he had done at the Wall to find his inner peace. He and Ivo weren’t friends – hell, Tomoya still wondered why they were even still together and couldn’t come up with a concrete answer. He was so angry he barely noticed the customers as he refilled their cups, but slowly his frustration ebbed away. He tried to see things from Ivo’s perspective; waking up alone in a place he didn’t recognise with people he couldn’t understand must have been hard. Did he think Tomoya had abandoned him? The thought _did_ cross the ex-Guardian’s mind but...

Evening approached. The celebrations of Prince Omarian’s engagement overtook every house and inn once more, spilling out into the streets in forms of bright parades and loud music. The sun disappeared, and night fell once again, sticky and hot and full of depravity. The flow of customers seemed never-ending, and Tomoya and Ivo lost themselves in their work; whenever Tomoya walked into the kitchen to refill his flagon, he and Ivo would ignore each other. The Mairi enjoyed the honest work – he had never had a job, training to become a Guardian since he was a child, and he found that conversing with the different customers was enjoyable, especially when they invited him to share their food and drink, or when they snuck bronze coins into his pockets. Halfway through the night Arkana and Ivo swapped jobs, so the blond came up onto the floor. Then it became Tomoya’s mission to avoid him and always stay on the opposite side of the inn.

In the few sporadic moments of respite, Tomoya spoke with Arkana; now that his mind was clear he understood why she had offered him a place to stay, and why she needed his help in the inn. She explained that the festivities would last a whole month but that her father would be back relatively soon; she was apologetic about not being able to pay him or Ivo more than a few bronze coins, but said they could stay in the attic room as long as they wished. Tomoya shouted to her over the noise of the inn, and explained that they were looking for passage to Grudorin.

Midnight approached, the fat wedge of the moon hanging high in the sky, and Tomoya was a little surprised when the inn-keeper grabbed his wrist and pulled him away from a table of bawdy middle-aged Shairin women, only to shove him down onto the pillows at a table where a lone man was sitting. It happened suddenly, with no explanation, and the ex-Guardian found himself sitting crossed legged in the corner of the room, away from the noise, but where the smoke from pipes and fires culminated.

The man opposite him was very old, judging from his mostly white beard that curled around his jaw in something akin to a dirty cloud. The man wore a wide-rimmed brown hat that threw a shadow on his wrinkled, leathery face, beaten darker than its initial shade by the sun. He had a bulky nose, coloured red undoubtedly from indulging in wine too often, but his deep set eyes seemed wise. He was not dressed like the Shairin, instead wearing a long-sleeved yellow tunic, carefully embroidered with green, and brown breeches.

“Hello, sir,” Tomoya said politely in Airyan, confused. He tried to search out Arkana in the crowd with his eyes, but couldn’t spot her.

 The old man puffed out a mouthful of grey smoke and. Nobody seemed to pay attention to either of them, and to Tomoya the old man seemed so out of place that for a moment he was scared he was speaking to a spirit.

“Name, boy,” the old man demanded in Kasha. Tomoya swallowed past the dryness in his throat – so this man was a Dukkosh.

“Tomoya,” he replied, before quietly cursing himself for telling the man his real name.

“You work here?” the man asked.

“No. I mean yes,” Tomoya said hurriedly, “Sorry, I am afraid I’m very confused. Who are you?”

“Arkana tells me you’re looking for a ship,” the old man grunted, ignoring the question in favour of asking his own, “Yes or no?”

“Yes,” Tomoya blinked.

“You look like a strong boy, and I need strong boys on my Sava,” he said, matter-of-fact, his pipe sticking out from his impressive moustache. Tomoya was too intimidated to ask who Sava was, “I lost two men this month – scurvy,” the man made a dissatisfied noise, “I need muscle. You looking for a job?”

“Uh...,” Tomoya opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water, “I’m looking for passage to Grudorin.”

“Good,” the captain grumbled, “My ship is headed for Iordanina, that’s in Grudorin in case you don’t know, Mairi.”

“I have no money,” Tomoya blurted, ignoring the half-arsed insult. To his surprise, the man laughed.

“You work here for no pay? Ah, Arkana, Arkana...,” he chuckled, “You work for me then, carry barrels, heave the sails, the lot; in return I give you passage, and a hammock to sleep in.”

“I...I...um..., I’m not alone though, I have a...friend, he’s Dukkosh like you,” Tomoya looked around, trying to spot Ivo in the crowd but frustratingly the boy was nowhere to be seen.

“Aye, the little blond one. Not much use carrying things but he can scrub the decks.”

“Listen,” Tomoya fought to gather his thoughts, “I just...I need to talk this out with him. We weren’t expecting to find a ship so soon...”

“And you won’t again, boy,” the man huffed, “Rarely do Dukkosh ships sail so far East. Listen, we leave in two days, make up your mind by then. I need a pair of strong hands on deck, and I’ve known Arkana since she was a child – she has good judgement, and she recommends both you and your friend. If you decide you want to get to Grudorin by the end of the month, then come down to the harbour tomorrow and ask for Captain Jaro.”

“I...I will.”

“Alright. Now off with you, scoundrel,” the man – whom Tomoya assumed was Captain Jaro, breathed a toxic cloud of smoke into his face. The ex-Guardian stood, eyes burning, and shuffled through the crowd, awe-struck. He felt like in all his time in the Mairi Empire he had never met as many bizarre characters as he had in the past few days in Cheri alone.

 _I need to tell Ivo._ Tomoya forgot all about their argument a few hours prior as he eagerly pushed through the crowd of standing and sitting patrons, trying to spot a blond head in the sea of dark locks. He manoeuvred around outstretched arms, ducked around little Khadi who was sprinting somewhere, and almost missed Ivo completely, catching him out of the corner of his eye.

The Dukkosh was making the most of the situation – he understood virtually nothing of what any of the customers said to him, relying on gestures to see if they wanted more wine or food. However although he didn’t speak Airyan, he recognised desire when he saw it, and felt the intense heat of several eyes following him around the room, trailing over his body. Ivo always knew he was very good looking, and here he was exotic too. The sweat on his skin made his hair curl adorably, his oversized clothes revealed tantalizing skin of his shoulders, and he stood out with his colouring. Simply being around so many bodies made his skin prickle with arousal and before he knew it his flagon had been emptied and he was perched in the lap of a handsome young man whose beard scratched Ivo’s skin whenever he leaned down to kiss his mouth playfully. They didn’t understand each other, but shared caresses as the man’s companions whispered and giggled at them. Ivo forgot about the job the moment he felt the man’s strong arms around him, a fire sparking in his gut. All he could think about was dragging this muscular man into his bed upstairs, and fornicating.

However before Ivo could somehow convey his desires to his companion, he felt a hand wrap tightly around his wrist and haul him upwards so violently that he stumbled and would have fallen was it not for the fingers digging into his skin. The startled Dukkosh found himself face-to-face with a fuming Tomoya.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing, Ivo?” the man demanded in a low growl. Ivo glanced at his companion, who seemed equally as surprised by Tomoya’s sudden appearance, until the ex-Guardian huffed _he’s at work_ at him in Airyan. The man shrugged and turned away, and Ivo tasted bitter disappointment. He glared at Tomoya.

“Why did you do that?” he hissed, face so close to Tomoya’s he could feel the man’s warm breath on his face, “What the hell is your problem?!”

“You’re so fucking useless,” Tomoya growled, eyes sparking with lightning that maybe would have intimidated Ivo if he wasn’t so angry himself, “I’m out here securing us a passage to your stupid, underdeveloped fucking country and meanwhile you’re looking to _fuck?”_

“I was getting us extra money! That man would have tipped-“

“So you’re a whore now?” Tomoya snapped, though thankfully patrons didn’t hear him over the ruckus of the inn. Ivo felt his face burn at the accusation, but  before he could reply, Tomoya composed himself and stepped back, releasing Ivo’s hand from his grip, “Arkana has helped us, and you can’t even do the most basic of jobs-“

“Enough.”

As if summoned by Tomoya’s words, the innkeeper appeared by the two men, seemingly materialised out of thin air. Her expression was stern, and she looked tired. Ivo felt guilty looking at her, and she began to speak to Tomoya.

“I don’t know what lover’s quarrel you two are having, but I need you to calm down. Go upstairs and take a few minutes to breathe, then ensure none of these drunkards has taken any of the rooms without paying – if they have, throw them out,” her voice had a hard-edge to it; she didn’t appreciate this unprofessional behaviour. She didn’t say anything to Ivo, just shoved his empty flagon that he had left at the man’s table back into his hands, before briskly walking off.

The two men exchanged furious glances but both felt embarrassed at having acted so immaturely and impulsively. Tomoya turned around and headed for the stairs without looking back. Ivo exhaled and looked at the flagon; for a moment he was tempted to try and seduce the man again, but the argument with Tomoya had quenched the fire within it, replacing it with fury that now too was oozing out, leaving him tired and hollow. The boy sighed. Tomoya always ruined everything. He rubbed his wrist as it began to burn – the Mairi had grabbed too hard; honestly Ivo didn’t know what was still holding them together.

**The next afternoon. Not so far away.**

**Din-Moher Harem, Antasa, Hadia.**

**The Shairin Empire.**

****

The sun shone brilliantly down on the royal gardens, illuminating the blossoming red acacias that weaved between the lilac Salvia, and the pretty desert roses with their lovely white and pink petals. Therian Abazza, the Mother Leahila, took much pride in her garden and spent most of her time tending to it, especially following her husband’s death and the emptiness it left behind.

Omarian adored his mother’s garden, much more than the courtyards of even the indoor garden on the third floor of the Harem – in fact ever since his encounter with his future fiancée Ari had been avoiding the indoor garden all together, since it carried such horrendous memories. But his mother’s garden was a place of peace and calm; the ladies of the Harem often drifted around here, giggling, arms linked, pretty dresses flowing; the gardeners would trim hedges and water the plants, and the beekeeper would tend to the hives on the east side. It was a wonderful place to be in this opulent summer afternoon, especially if Gus was there too.

“Ari, _higher,”_ the Odelian feigned annoyance as he held up his own wooden sword in the way that he had instructed the Prince to do, “If you’re not going to listen I won’t bother teaching you.”

“I’m listening, I’m listening,” Ari assured him quickly, raising his own blunt weapon, mirroring his best friend.

“Alright, tight grip – yes?” Gus said, grey eyes piercing Ari. The boy nodded, mouth set in a serious line.

“Yes,” he confirmed.

Gus danced two steps towards him, graceful as if he were walking on air; this grace he lacked in dancing, but attained in fighting. Ari was so mesmerised by his movement that he lost concentration, and his friend easily swung his sword, knocking Ari’s weapon from his slack hands.

“Ouch!” the Prince gasped and stumbled back, gripping his wrist that ached from the impact.

“Ari!” Gus yelled, but hurried towards him, dropping his own weapon in favour of cradling Ari’s small, dark, delicate hand in his bigger ones. He brushed his thumb against his wrist, “I told you to have a tight grip,” Gus sighed, “Does it hurt badly? Do you need the physician?”

Arian shook his head, since the pain ebbed away, “Sorry, I got distracted,” he mumbled sheepishly, “You just looked so elegant...”

Gus sighed again, a little fondly now, “I really don’t think sword-fighting is for you, Ari.”

“But you like it,” the boy said dejectedly – they have had this conversation before – “and I want to be good at _something,_ as good as you.”

Gus smiled fondly, “Idiot,” he ran his hand through Ari’s slightly sweaty hair, “You’re good at plenty of things; for once you’re much smarter than me. So let me be better at sword-fighting, alright?”

Ari smiled a little, “Alright. I don’t like violence,” he admitted.

“I know you don’t. Want to go see if the cook has some pastries left over from breakfast?”

Ari’s eyes lit up in such a way that Gus contemplated just picking him up and eloping with him right there and then, “Yes! Yes, please!” he gushed.

However they never made it as far as the kitchens, for when they were passing the prayer room, giggling, heads together as sweat cooled on their skin in the shadowy interior of the Harem, they ran right into Arian’s mother.

“Ah, boys!” Therian’s wrinkled, albeit still beautiful, face lit up, “I was just looking for you and was told you were practicing in the gardens.”

“Hello mother,” Arian smiled sweetly, “We are going to the kitchen to eat pastries.”

Therian’s smile faltered for only a split second, too short for either of the boys to catch it, “I’m afraid there are none left,” she said gently, “But Ari, did you forget? You are to have a nice afternoon tea with your fiancée this afternoon. All the pastries are there, and fruit, and herbal tea, your favourites...,” she trailed off, seeing the expression change on the boys’ faces. Arian went pale, fear flooding his dark eyes. Next to him, Augustus went rigid, jaw clenching. Pain pricked at Therian’s heart. _Damn this war._ She kept her smile on her face.

Ari turned on his heel and made to bolt back towards the arch that led to the garden. Gus was quicker, grabbing him around the middle and hauling him back.

“No!” Ari protested loudly, struggling in Gus’ grip as his voice echoing off the walls and making several servants running errands turn their heads, “No, anything but him!”

“Omarian,” Therian said calmly, though her hands were clenched together, “Calm down this instance, this behaviour is not suited for a Prince.” She had to be stern with him, he was no longer a child, even if his head didn’t work properly. Therian had to be the Mother Leahila, even if in that moment she wanted to gather her baby boy into her arms and protect him from all evil. Clearly, Gus wanted to do the same, because he didn’t let go of Ari, holding onto the squirming boy to prevent him from trying to run, or maybe he just wanted to keep him close.

“Ari,” Gus said, more gentle than Therian, “Ari, calm down.”

Arian went slack in his grip and looked up at him pleadingly before grabbing Gus’ face in his hands and pulling him down so he could press their foreheads together feverishly. Gus watched helplessly as Ari closed his eyes, brows furrowed, and started to whisper.

“Please can we do something else?” he asked, and Gus’ arms tightened around his waist subconsciously, “C-Can we go to the lake, o-or go to bed, I-I think an afternoon nap would d-do me well a-actually...”

“Ari,” Gus was more stern now, “You’re behaving like a child.”

Omarian wanted to cry. He let go of Gus’ face and pushed his arms away. For a moment he wanted to run again, to be out there in the sunshine, among the flowers, and be free. But he had been angering Augustus a lot lately, and now his mother looked upset too. The Prince focused on pastries, and fruit, and tea.

“I’ll go,” he said dully, though his insides felt shaky. Therian exhaled and reached out to caress her son’s flushed cheek, fighting the urge to push him back into Gus’ arms. She sighed when her baby flinched away from her. If it was up to her, she would have Gus and Ari married and living happily together within the week. But alas, this alliance was needed.

“Good boy,” Therian breathed, dropping her hand and attempting to make amends with words, “I’m proud of you.”

“C-Can,” Ari’s voice trembled and he swallowed, twisting his fingers together nervously, “Can Gus come with me?”

“I...,” Therian glanced at Gus, who looked equally as helpless.

“It’s an order,” Ari blurted, and immediately felt guilty for it. Therian felt a headache at her temples.

“Fine,” she agreed, “both of you go bathe and change, and hurry, he won’t be pleased if you’re late again.”

Gahr sat in a plush, velvet chair in the indoor garden, watching sunlight filter in through the glass ceiling and roof, domed above his head. He was alone, once more, though servants had bustled in with plates of finger-food and ceramic pots of tea and a jug of chilled water. Gahr only drank the water, not having much of an appetite – his fiancée was late again but that was not the reason why Gahr wasn’t hungry; the reason why he wasn’t hungry was the fury burning in his throat, the bitter dejection and resignation to his fate that tasted like acid in his mouth.

He hated his family for forcing him to come here and marry the Prince. Gahr had an unwed older brother, and an unwed younger sister, who both could have suited this role and secured this prestigious marriage. But they had sent Gahr out of spite, and now he found himself far away from home, punished for simply falling in love. The Shairin preached about the First Scroll of their religion, the one that was the most important of the Scrolls and that stated that love conquered all and that everyone should strive towards it, and yet they ignored it when it came to politics and personal gains. So what if Gahr had fallen in love with a servant? So what if he had gotten her with child? The thought of her scrubbing floors in his family’s mansion, alone and abandoned, made him want to be sick. He wanted to be with her, to care for her and his unborn baby, and instead he was forced to be here, having ridiculous meetings with a Prince with a child’s mind who hated him.

Gahr’s hands clenched into fists at his sides and he wished he could smash this pretty room up, rip up all the flowers and leaves, uproot all the trees, shatter the windows and the golden plates in front of him, destroy it all until only he and Satima were left, and their unborn child.

The door to the indoor garden opened and in walked Gahr’s future husband, late again, and once more accompanied by his irritating pale, Odelian friend. Gahr bristled at the sight of them.

“How nice of you to _finally_ join me,” he gritted through his teeth as the Prince hesitated, looking at him with big, scared, doe-like eyes. Gahr didn’t _want_ to scare him, but at the same time he despised the Prince – he was the reason that he and Satima couldn’t be together. “Does your shadow always follow you around, or only to meetings with me?”

The Odelian man replied himself, “I am Prince Ari’s guard,” he said, voice cold and tense, looking at Gahr narrowly, “I am only here to ensure his safety.”

Gahr snorted at the ridiculousness of the whole situation and watched as his future fiancée sat on the opposite side of the table, as far away as he possibly could. Gahr begrudgingly admitted that there was some sort of attractiveness to the Prince’s delicacy, to the gentle wave of his dark hair and his thick eyelashes. However his beauty was no match for Satima’s, her gorgeous long, dark chestnut hair that smelled like lilies, and her twinkling brown eyes. A terrible sense of loss gripped Gahr’s heart, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to hurt this boy in front of him – maybe it was good that his Odelian guard was there, standing stiffly behind the Prince’s chair, a silent reminder that Gahr was powerless to do anything.

Ari squirmed in his seat; he didn’t like the way Gahr looked at him, all dark and brooding and _cold._ It made him want to whimper like a kitten, but instead he picked up a clay pot of tea and with trembling hands poured himself a steaming cup, avoiding eye-contact with his fiancée. His desire for pastries perished, and he was left only with a heavy feeling in his stomach. Gus’ presence at his back was warm and comforting though.

Ari tried to remember his manners, “H-How did you sleep, my Lord?”

“Terribly,” Gahr replied, fighting an eye-roll.

“O-Oh,” Ari looked into his cup of tea but couldn’t bring himself to drink any of it.

“I’d ask you how you slept,” Gahr said, “but frankly it doesn’t interest me.”

Ari swallowed, “Yes,” a slightly panicked laugh escaped his lips, “i-it’s not much of an interesting t-topic, forgive me.”

“Somehow I’m not surprised. You don’t seem awfully interesting yourself.”

Ari flinched and Gus felt anger ooze through his veins instead of blood. His hands clenched at his sides and he entertained himself with the thought of smashing Gahr’s smug face with his fist, even though he was not a violent man. He’d go to war for Ari, and right now his enemy was sitting just across the table, speaking to the boy he loved in a disrespectful and degrading manner, and Ari was much too sweet to defend himself.

“I-,” he started, and Gus saw his hands trembling by his cup.

“I bet you are the most vanilla person ever,” Gahr rested his chin in his hand and looked at Arian as if he was an interesting exhibit at a menagerie.

“I-I don’t know what that means,” Ari’s laugh was tense, slightly panicky, as he tried to clumsily diffuse the obvious tension in the air. It took everything in him to stay in his seat, “But vanilla h-has many uses, u-um it is a-actually good in tea-,” he reached for his cup but his anxiety made his hands stiff and awkward, and he knocked it over. The liquid spilled across the wooden table.

“Ah, stupid _and_ graceless,” Gahr seemed unimpressed, and Ari’s cheeks burned with embarrassment.

“It’s alright, your highness,” Gus was there with a handkerchief, dabbing at the tea before Ari could even move. He offered the Prince a comforting smile, “it was just an accident.”

Ari exhaled, feeling relieved that his friend was there.

“A follow-up question,” Gahr continued as Gus cleaned up the mess, “You are unmarried, and I will be your first husband, but do you plan to take more after me?”

“I-I...,” Ari glanced at Gus, but Gus didn’t away from the stain he was cleaning, “Y-Yes, I t-think so-“

“Ah,” Gahr raised a thick black eyebrow, enjoying toying with the flustered Prince, “So you don’t think you could love me? Am I a joke to you, or merely a warm body? Are you just using me?”

Ari’s ears burned, “N-No!” he blurted, afraid he had somehow ruined the alliance. He imagined Seraf’s disappointment, “N-Not at all m-my Lord, I simply-“

“Next question,” Gahr said, bored. It was a little fun to rile up the Prince, and see his companion, who returned to stand behind him, get more and more angry, unable to react in any way, “Have you ever been with a man or a woman before?”

“I-I don’t think I know what you mean, sir,” Ari squeaked.

“Oh,” Gahr was beginning to be entertained, “A little virgin, are you?”

“U-Um t-this conversation is making me really u-uncomfortable,” Ari blurted. It dawned on him, in that moment, that on his wedding night he would have to do _things_ with Gahr. He wasn’t a child, he was just slow, and he knew about those things that took place in beds, mostly from Eryel and his cousins, and the thought of having Gahr touch him made him feel nauseous. He had thought about it before – about _sex_ – and he had touched himself in the dark cover of night, but it had always been with Gus in mind. Somehow the thought of Gus touching him didn’t disgust him, quite the opposite really, but Gahr...

Arian was about to have an attack of panic, Gus could tell. The boy’s eyes were glued to the table and his hands were in fists, resting on his thighs, while his breathing grew more and more erratic, too quiet for Gahr to hear.

Gus stepped forward, “I think that is enough for today,” he snapped harshly at Gahr, “the prince is tired.”

Gahr noticed Arian’s state. He felt a little guilty as he leaned back in his seat and popped a dried plum in his mouth, “Fine. Thankyou for the riveting conversation, your highness,” he said sarcastically, and enjoyed the way the Odelian glared at him.

He watched as he helped the Prince up off the seat and led him to the door, a caring arm around his waist since the Prince shook so badly it seemed he couldn’t walk alone. It wasn’t until they walked past Gahr that it all came together in his head; the overly friendly and comfortable way the guard was touching the Prince, how he could tell straight away when the boy was panicking, the way he referred to him as ‘Ari’...the Odelian was in love with the Prince, and it could all work in Gahr’s favour.

Thankfully the indoor garden and Ari’s chambers were on the same floor, so Gus only had to half-drag, half-carry his best friend down a short corridor, past a staircase and Ari’s private lavatory. They got into the bedroom and Gus turned to close the door and when he turned back Ari was standing helplessly in a square of sunlight, eyes glued to the lush carpet. His heavy breathing had subdued and been replaced by small, pathetic sniffles instead. Clearly being in his own room was calming, but he still looked really upset, and Gus’ heart broke in two.

“Ari,” he said softly, but the boy didn’t react. The Odelian circled him and stood right in front of him, lightly nudging the Prince’s chin so Ari would look at him, but the boy’s eyes remained trained on the floor. A tear fell directly onto the carpet, “Ari, look at me.”

“I-I’m sorry,” Ari whispered, sniffling, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, Ari-“

“N-No it’s not,” the boy said, a little harsher now, and wiped his nose on his sleeve, frustrated that he was crying _again._ He simply couldn’t control it, “I messed it up, I mess everything up, I-I’m going to -disappoint everyone-“

“You haven’t disappointed me.”

“I’m so _weak,”_ Ari turned away from Gus, “Why can’t I just be _normal.”_

Gus didn’t know what to say. He felt guilty because he was _glad_ that Ari hated Gahr, he just couldn’t help it, the thought of Ari loving another person caused him physical pain. No words could fix the situation.

“Do you want me to stay?” Gus asked softly.

“No,” Ari said, and it _hurt._ “You’ll have to leave in the end anyway.”

Gus felt his throat tighten and he felt like crying too. Without a word he started walking towards the door – Ari was right, they couldn’t stay together forever, but hearing it from his mouth was like a knife to the gut.

Gus never reached the door because Ari grabbed his hand fiercely and pulled him back around, pure panic in his eyes, “Don’t leave,” he gasped, shaking once more, “D-Don’t leave-,” his face crumpled and he started sobbing hysterically.

Gus had dealt with Ari losing it many times since they were children, but this time it was like he was unable to control himself. He grabbed Ari and pulled him into a _violent_ embrace, crushing the small Prince against his chest and squeezing so hard that the rational part of his brain told him that he was hurting the other boy. But it worked, somehow, and Ari stopped crying very quickly, instead clinging onto Gus, comforted by the intensity of the hug. Gus showered the top of his head and his brow with kisses, gently telling Ari to shush until the boy was left hiccupping and breathing unevenly. Only then Gus loosened his hold on him, leaning down to smush their cheeks together the way they did when they were children. He felt Ari smile tiredly.

“I’m going to have that nap after all. Sorry for causing you trouble,” the Prince whispered hoarsely.

**Later that evening. Not so far away.**

**The Al-Salana Inn, Cheri, Hadia.**

**The Shairin Empire.**

****

As the sun hung in a lazy suspension over Cheri, in a way that made it seem like it was deliberating whether to stay put or sink behind the horizon, Tomoya returned to the harbour. He had been working all day at the inn and had been given a short respite before the inevitable rush of the evening; he took the time to go down to the water in hopes of taking a definitive step towards getting the fuck out of the Empire.

The harbour, even more crowded and busy than the previous day and littered with boats randomly putting down their anchors for the night, was bathed in a golden light and Tomoya spotted Jaro almost immediately – the old man was in the previous night’s clothes, eye catching in his wide hat, sitting on a barrel and smoking his pipe. Tomoya hesitated, swallowed, and approached.

“Good afternoon,” he said politely. Jaro didn’t even look at him, billowing a cloud of grey smoke the same colour as his beard out of his mouth.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” he croaked.

“I want to go to Grudorin,” Tomoya said, feeling uncomfortable. Jaro inclined his head and then pointed a crooked, dirty finger at a nearby ship, “That is my girl, Sava.”

Tomoya’s eyes landed on the medium sized ship, two or three decked it seemed, but impressive, its brown deck beaten and scratched by years of use. Its sails, a brilliant yellow colour, were tied up and the ship swayed gently on the waters of the bay. Its prow was carved into the shape of a beautiful, naked woman with flowers around her head. However what was more impressive was the mast of the ship, which was a tree, its branches stretching out and upwards. A crew bustled about the boat, and some of their hair gleamed gold in the sunshine.

“It looks like a strong ship,” Tomoya said. Jaro barked out a laugh.

“It is.” Jaro was clearly a man of few words.

“So,” Tomoya prompted, “Do we have a deal? My friend and I working the decks in return for free passage to Grudorin?”

“Ah, my boy,” Jaro finally looked at him, eyes wise, “the terms have changed.”

Tomoya frowned, “I don’t understand. Last night you said-“

“That was last night,” Jaro stood from his barrel, bones creaking, “but alas, today is a new day,” he grinned his yellow, rotting teeth at Tomoya, “and a new day means new terms.”

The ex-Guardian bit back his anger, “Alright,” he said coldly, “what are the new terms?”

“I have a daughter,” Jaro said, and a look of care and trouble descended on his old, wrinkled face, “she is young, my late wife and I, Eriona bless her soul, had her when we were old ourselves, a miracle child if you will. She has spent all her life on ships, and she is a bit...,” he rubbed his beard here, looking for the correct word, “ _reckless._ Aye, she’s a little flame, but she gets herself into all sorts of trouble,” Tomoya had an inkling as to where this was going, “I’m getting close to my grave now, and I need somebody to look out for that flame when I’m gone – a husband, a good, strong husband. You seem like an honest lad.”

Tomoya bristled, “No,” he said, “Marriage is sacred in my culture,” Hiroa’s face – the one he had not thought of in a very long time – flashes in his mind, “I simply cannot marry casually.”

“Who says anything about casual?” Jaro spread his arms and shrugged, “The marriage can be as sacred as you want, I simply need somebody who will ensure my daughter won’t get herself killed. After I die and she’s tired of the sea-waters you can settle in our cottage in Iordanina, pop out a few grandchildren for me if I am still alive, lead a calm, _safe_ life.”

Tomoya swallowed; he was faced with a decision and he had to decide quickly, before the terms changed again. For a second he cursed himself for not accepting this offer the night before, but then he mulled over what Jaro was offering. A wife, a home, and peace didn’t sound so bad, and it was a better prospect than the ex-Guardian ever imagined while trekking through the Dalahari desert. And yet his throat felt tight. What would happen to Ivo, the little shit? Would he disappear into the lush green of Grudorin that Tomoya had heard so much about, never to be seen again, like some kind of forest sprite? The thought was painful, and problematic...

“Give me until midnight,” he blurted, “I simply need to talk it over with my...companion.”

Jaro sighed, seemingly disappointed, “Midnight, boy.”

_How much time? How much time?_ Ivo thought distractedly as the man above him dragged his hot mouth over his neck, his soft tongue lapping at the blond’s sweaty neck like a cat while his hand rested between their naked bodies, fingers buried inside Ivo. If it was up to the Dukkosh he would have skipped this part and just taken the stranger’s cock inside himself immediately, however he hadn’t slept with anyone in weeks and he was scared he would be hurt and unable to return to work. Arkana had given him half an hour to take a break upstairs, in the attic room, and Ivo took this time to pull one of the patrons, the same bearded man from the previous night, into his bed. They laid now by the fire of a single candle as the sky outside darkened rapidly, a few stray sunsets rays stealing into the room, kissing and touching feverishly as festivities continued just outside the window.

Ivo _needed_ this; the comfort of being submerged in pleasure was a familiar one, and one he had craved for so long. The room was boiling hot, and Ivo was sticky and uncomfortable and yet having a body pressed up against him made it all worth it. He didn’t know the man’s name, didn’t understand the sultry murmurs whispered into his skin, but it was enough to make Ivo’s blood hot and his cock throbbing.

“Just fuck me you big oaf,” the boy huffed out, obviously not understood, and then whined when the man twisted the fingers inside him it. It had been so _long._

The door to the room banged open in a display of comically terrible timing. The stranger jumped away from Ivo, startled, and tumbled off the bed as Ivo sat up, finding himself looking right at the person he wanted to see least right now; Tomoya.

_Fuck._

Tomoya stared. Ivo was naked as the day he was born, half-sat and half-laying down, eyes wide. For a moment everyone was still and Tomoya took in Ivo’s dishevelled appearance; the flush of his cheeks, indecent hardness between his legs and sweat pooling in his collarbones made it clear what was taking place in _their_ bed. For a moment he was outraged and lost for words.

“Are you whoring about again?!” he demanded when he found his words again.

“No! I _wanted_ him to fuck me!” Ivo yelled, offended. The Shairin man tried to speak but Tomoya glared at him, which was enough for the stranger to clumsily pick his clothes off the floor and steal out of the room. Tomoya was fuming, and Ivo was once again left unsatisfied.

“This is ridiculous!” he stood, proud and naked and unashamed, making Tomoya blush at his lack of decency, “We have to share this room but I demand privacy! You should have at least knocked-“

“You’re supposed to be working!” Tomoya took a threatening step towards Ivo, using all of his will to stop himself from hitting the infuriating blond. He didn’t know why, but the situation made him see red, “What’s wrong with you?! Are you deaf or just stupid?! What part of _working_ do you not comprehend?”

“I was taking a break, so were you, and you were gone for _ages_!” Ivo didn’t understand Tomoya’s outrage.

“Yes but I was finding us a fucking ship, you prick,” Tomoya bellowed, voice swallowed by the noise outside. He found it hard to concentrate on Ivo’s face with him naked, but his anger spurred him on, “You’re so fucking selfish, not only do you seek out pleasure but you also tried to have sex with a _man_ in _our_ bed!”

Ivo’s face twisted with menace, “Does that disgust you?! That I wanted his fat prick shoved inside me-“

Tomoya shoved Ivo up against the wall, wanting to scream in fury. Nobody, _nobody,_ had ever made him this angry before, not even that asshole Kei back at the wall. And yet this little, slim, snarky blond boy was enough to make Tomoya’s whole world tilt, and made him want to commit murder.

Fear blossomed in that little, slim, snarky boy’s gut as Tomoya’s hand wrapped around his throat. The man was strong enough that he held Ivo up against the wall with his toes barely touching the ground, and struggling achieved nothing. The boy’s air-flow was restricted, but what was more terrifying was Tomoya’s expression; their faces were close together, and Tomoya’s eyes were dark with rage. For the first time since they met, Ivo thought that Tomoya might actually hurt him. He couldn’t breathe, and clawed at Tomoya’s hand on his throat.

Tomoya released him, taking a shaky step back as his anger drained from him. He wasn’t a violent person, and the look in Ivo’s eyes – uncertainty and fear – had made him afraid. Also being that close to the naked, sweaty boy hadn’t been good.

Ivo cleared his throat, then coughed, glancing at Tomoya anxiously as if scared the man would explode again. An apology pushed itself into Tomoya’s mouth.

“I’m going to change the sheets,” Ivo said quietly, fearfully, a little hoarsely. The air in the room seemed chilly.

Tomoya watched, feeling a little helpless, as Ivo picked his trousers up off the floor and pulled them on with no underwear, before he began stripping the bed. Tomoya stared at his pale, narrow back.

“I’ve got us a ship. It leaves tomorrow and it’s headed for Grudorin.”

Ivo dropped the covers and whirled around, his whole face lighting up, immediately forgetting what just happened.

“Really?!” he gushed, hope sparkling in his eyes.

Tomoya’s heart clenched in his chest and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. _This_ is what he wanted Ivo to look like – he never wanted to see that fear in his eyes ever again, not directed at him. But Ivo had already pushed that encounter his mind; the prospect of going home made everything seemed brighter.

“Yes. We’ll have to work the decks, but the passage will be free.”

“Oh that’s brilliant,” Ivo exhaled, feeling like the world had been lifted from his shoulders.

“But I have to marry the Captain’s daughter.”

The Dukkosh blinked, “Oh. Is she pretty?”

It seemed so easy to him. Tomoya swallowed past the lump in his throat, not feeling like arguing, “I don’t know.”

“You’ll do it though, right?” Ivo asked hopefully, “It’s not a big deal, we can just run away when we get to Grudorin-“

“You don’t understand,” Tomoya said quietly, heart heavy, “marriage is a sacred in my culture; you’re only supposed to marry once.”

Ivo shrugged, “You’re not home now, it doesn’t matter.”

But it did, not that Ivo, free-loving and nonchalant, would ever comprehend that. Tomoya always wanted real love, that’s why he indulged himself in Hiroa. Now the prospect was being ripped from him forever but it was for the price of freedom. He felt cold all of a sudden, distant from the Taiyoo and everything he had been taught.

**At the same time, on the other side of the Empty Land.**

**The Tekosh Wall, Baijin Patch, Tekoshi.**

**Mairi Empire.**

****

It was gone midnight, and all the Guardians and recruits were supposed to be in their dorms, asleep, or doing their nightly duty such as patrolling the Wall or the streets of Tekoshi. But Miko couldn’t sleep – the dorm room he had shared with his best friends felt chilly and empty since he was the last one left, so instead he sought solace in one of the training rooms, where a sack of flour hung suspended from the ceiling. He, Reno, Aki and Tomoya had been inseparable since they came to the Wall as children. Under Reno’s calm leadership, with Aki’s somewhat blind bravery and Tomoya’s loyalty, all glued with Miko’s humour, they had been a perfect group, remaining at the Wall long after the other graduate Guardians of their year had left to serve all over the Empire. But then Tomoya had been employed at the Kage house and had left for some years. Reno and Aki advanced to becoming trainers for the newest recruits, but Miko had always been a mediocre Guardian, so apart from giving lessons in languages he remained just as a simple Guardian. But he loved his job, because his friends, the only people he had ever considered family, were there.

Except now they were gone.

Miko angrily hit the sack with his left fist, wrapped in gauze to prevent his skin from splitting. He gritted his teeth, remembering how excited he had been when he heard Tomoya was coming back home; that was until he was told that the man would be coming back as a prisoner and criminal, and not a Guardian.

Miko had saved him, and understood that the consequence of that would never be seeing his best friend again, but that was a better alternative to watching his body rot and get pecked at by crows as it hung over the wall. And Miko had been alright with losing Tommy, he had made his peace with that, until Reno and Aki got stolen from him too.

Another violent hit to the sack, followed by a muffled yell from between Miko’s clenched teeth. He was in an isolated part of the Wall, away from the dorms, but he still had to be quiet. He huffed out a frustrated breath and wiped sweat off his forehead before circling the flour sack, imagining it was some invisible enemy.

Four days ago Reno and Aki received the command that they would be leaving upon the morning to work at a mansion all the way up North in the Miyaga Patch. The Miyaga Patch was days and days away, and yet some rich Lord wanted those two specifically. There was nothing they could do – orders were orders, it was their duty to go where told. Reno never broke any rules, apart from the ones required to save Tomoya’s life, but that was because he was innocent in their eyes, and Aki followed Reno’s command blindly. They both packed their things, said heart-felt and tough goodbyes, and left. That day it rained hard.

For four days Miko was alone, feeling like a ghost and uselessly trying to fill his days with doing chores and duties, to no avail. He knew he was stuck at the Wall forever – nobody wanted _him_ as their Guardian, he was too scrawny, too clumsy, too loud. And he thought he’d made his peace with that until the narrow sleeping cots in his dorm room, the ones that belonged to his partners in crime, had been filled with new, fresh-faced and wide eyes recruits.

Miko hated sleeping in that room now; the recruits would talk in their sleep, have nightmares, or cry after whatever trauma they had experienced. Nobody came to the Wall without baggage except for sons of rich lords.  

Miko felt lonely and useless, a forgotten Guardian of a year of graduates who had all left by now.

Miko punched the bag again, breathing hard. His arms were beginning to ache but if he had any hope of ever making something of himself he had to get some muscle and strength first. He was small and quick, but that was useless when defending a mansion. But he was only twenty winters old, he could still make something of himself and prove to his father, who had thrown Miko out into a winter night when he was eight after claiming he couldn’t feed all of his children and Miko wouldn’t survive anyway, that he was worth something.

Miko punched the bag harder, as hard as he fucking could, but it barely even swung and pain bloomed through his fist.

“Fuck you!” he yelled at the bag, forgetting to be quiet for a moment. A slow clap sounded from across the room and Miko’s heart fell as he prepared to be punished for being out of bed. However when he peered around the training bag, he saw a smirking Keito leaning against the dark doorway leading into the hallway – he was dressed in a lose blue sleeping kimono that all the Guardians wore, and had clearly amused himself for the past few minutes by watching Miko struggle with the bag. Seeing him right now made the small Guardian feel angry, but also embarrassed that his nemesis had seen him at his low.

“What do you want?” Miko snapped.

“Ooooh,” Kei smirked and walked into the room, “Would you look at that, the firebug is feeling a little more fiery today than normal, eh?”

“I’m not in the mood,” Miko deflated. Somehow he couldn’t be angry with Keito no matter how much he taunted him; there was just an insincerity to the insults that didn’t sit right and made Miko believe Keito didn’t actually hate him. It was bizarre, but honestly Miko never bothered to try and make sense of it.

“When are you _ever_ in the mood, bug?” Keito rolled his eyes as if disappointed by Miko’s change of mood, “Are you mad because your friends left you, or because you’re an irritating little runt that won’t ever get a job off the Wall?” his tone was snarky.

Miko turned away from him and started untying the bandages on his hands, suddenly very tired, “You need to come up with new insults, Shingatasha, you’re getting a little predictable.”

As always, Keito seemed way too affected by the comment, his angular face flushing a furious purple as he clenched his jaw, “How dare you speak to me like that?” he hissed, “You’re a lowly peasant and you’ll never be anything more.”

“Yes, yes,” Miko agreed dismissively, having heard it all before.

Then Miko suddenly felt his arm being grabbed and before he knew it he was shoved up against the training bag, which swung back a bit, making Miko stumble.

“You little-“ Kei hissed, very, _very_ close to Miko, his warm breath fanning over the boy’s face. The smaller boy’s instincts kicked in and without thinking punched Keito square in the face. The man yelped and foundered backwards as Miko pulled an apologetic face.

“I’m sorry, that was just reflex.”

Keito pulled his hands away from where he had been gripping his nose, which now had a ribbon of blood trailing down over his lips, and he glared at Miko so hard for a moment the boy feared for his safety. He turned on his heel and took off, running towards the door, and where normally he was fast, this time Keito’s anger made him catch up. He got a terrified Miko halfway down the dark, isolated hallway, and tackled him to the ground.

The boy full body slammed into the floor but he barely felt it, fear making every other emotion take the back seat.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the boy blurted as he was shoved face-first against the dusty floorboards, Keito’s full body weight against his back. Miko’s hands were stuck beneath him, and his legs were pinned down by Keito’s. He could feel the hot breath of his bully against the back of his neck and it was making his hair stand on end; he feverishly prayed to Taiyoo for mercy for the first time in years.

“Do you think this is a joke?” Keito growled directly into Miko’s ear, making him cringe away and his heart pound furiously, “You think you can just hit me and get away with it? Oh, Ondera, you’ve got another thing coming,” his voice was tight, restrained, and he was too _close._ Miko tried to weasel away but he was scrawny, and Keito most definitely was not, which he proved by putting more of his weight on Miko’s back. It was starting to get painful.

“G-Get off,” Miko huffed out.

“You’re a little shit, Ondera, and without the protection of your precious friends I’m going to make your life a living hell, I fucking promise-“

Warm light from a torch fell onto the two of them and Keito released his grip, allowing Miko to look up at the one of the High Guardians, who was standing over them stoically, with a flaming torch in hand.

“Ah. Ondera, Shingatasha, how interesting for you to be out of your beds.”

Keito scrambled off Miko and the boy clumsily got to his feet, knees weak, “Apologies, High Guardian,” he bowed hurried and Kei followed suit, “We were only training.” He didn’t know why he said _we._

“Training?” the High Guardian raised an unimpressed eyebrow, “It didn’t look like training to me. Has Shingatasha been bothering you again?”

“No, High Guardian,” Miko lied easily. The High Guardian looked between them but Miko couldn’t bear to look at Keito.

“Interesting,” the High Guardian said curtly, “Well, if you two are so eager for something to do you will both be required to guard the East Wall every night for the next month.”

Both the boys bit back a groan; guarding the East Wall was horrendous, especially at night when cold air blew in from the sea. Bizarrely, Miko didn’t regret covering for Keito – for the first time in four days he didn’t feel so horribly alone.


	10. Rain Dance

**The following afternoon, Late Autumn, 212 CE**

**Castle Darmont, Crasbury, Wildeshell.**

**Kingdom of Beauralt.**

****

Laughter echoed through the stone castle walls and spilled outside into the chilly, rainy autumn evening. It danced over the grey gardens and between the bare branches of the trees, and was swept away by the wind. It was a sound that had been missing from the Castle for years and years, perhaps forever. It seemed that before the occupation of the Voubren, the castle had never laughed at all.

And yet now it was splitting at the seams for instead of nobles and royals attempting to escape their new captors, they brought more servants and friends to come stay in the Castle which within the space of a week had become the jolliest place in all of Crasbury. There were now plush carpets covering the cold floors, and lion skins hanging off walls. There was wine and delicacies a-plenty and every night an exotic band played music long into the late hours. King Sef organized tea parties at which naked dancers entertained the guests by pouring honey over their perky breasts and having the braver lords and ladies lick it from their collarbones – in the evening everyone would put on their best gowns and cloaks, and masks and plumes of feathers, and dress as if it were all a pantomime as they spun each other around the Great Hall. It was opulence, and debauchery, and sinfulness, and yet everyone indulged in it, except a select few who made it a point to separate themselves from what they deemed treachery and compliance with the enemy.

Like the Lord Protector.

“Deep breaths, sire,” the Captain of the Guard told his King as he hovered in the doorway of the biggest chamber that Sef had foolishly picked for himself upon his invasion; now he found the fireplace could not warm the spacious chamber no matter how high the flames climbed.

“Blue, Heroti?” Sef fretted, looking at himself in the mirror, and turning to glance over his shoulder and ensure the dyed-blue fur falling over one shoulder didn’t clash with the thick golden necklace around his ark neck, “Or should I return to the yellow option?”

Heroti stifled a smile, “The blue looks more flattering, sire,” he replied in his baritone.

Sef exhaled and looked at himself again.

“Sire,” Heroti continued, waiting to escort his King through the chilly hallways, “We will be late for dinner. It is time to go.”

Sef’s eyes met his reflections and he nibbled on his full lower lip, afraid to ask his question, “Did he answer my invitation?” he managed, trying to remain composed. Heroti cleared his throat awkwardly and readjusted the grip on his spear.

“Yes, sire. He politely declined.”

Sef tried not to feel disappointed. For the past five days he had asked Lysander to join him for a party, or a meal, or a drink, or a negotiation, but the Lord Protector adamantly refused and Sef hadn’t seen him since the day he took the Castle for the Lord had hid himself away in his chambers. Sef was running out of time now though, and his gentle courting clearly wasn’t working.

Dark thoughts crept into Sef’s head, familiar and unwanted, whispering to him that Lysander didn’t want him, that no matter what Sef did they would never be together; he was a monster, and Lysander would never forgive him for burning his villages and killing his people. Sef’s hands clenched into fists. _No,_ he told himself, _that’s not true..._ but it was. Lysander _hated_ him, hated that Sef desired him as a man. The truth was that Sef would have to marry Net, if things continued like that.

Anger and disgust sparked through him and he stood straighter, throwing his fur over his shoulder with a flourish. If Lysander refused his invitations, he would come by force. Sef was now the King of this Castle, and he could do as he pleased.

“Change of plans, Heroti,” he said regally, “tell my dinner guests my sister will join them instead, then bring me the Lord Protector in the room...hmmm...uh...the one with the big map.”

“The Concilliar Room?” Heroti offered, somewhat amused by his King’s antics. He saw Sef as something of a little brother figure, a little reckless, very unpredictable, somewhat childish but still loyal, brave, and much too intelligent for his own good. As badly as he was going about this whole ordeal – in true _take what you want_ Voubren fashion – Heroti silently hoped that the Lord Protector would give in.

“Yes, that one,” Sef said dismissively, already distracted. His eyes landed on a square package laying at the foot of his bed, wrapped in golden silk that he had meant to offer Lysander as a gift when they first met.

“Sire,” Heroti said carefully, “If I may advise you-“

“You may not,” Sef snapped, then his shoulders sagged as guilt settled over him. Heroti was one of the few true friends he had in this Castle. The King turned and offered his Captain of the Guard a troubled smile, “I’m afraid I’ve already dug my grave. Might as well keep digging and see what’s on the other side.”

“Might as well,” Heroti agreed, not taking offence.

Two guards escorted Sef to the Concilliar room amidst sweet music playing and laughter echoing. Every lord and lady he walked past bowed and smiled and complimented him, wine in hand, cheeks ruddy with drink. Sef was too anxious to say much back, his mind focused on his meeting with Lysander. How could he win him over, persuade him to at least consider giving Sef a chance? The King had never had to _court_ someone, especially someone he had imprisoned; people usually just flocked to him and his natural charisma.

“Leave me,” the King told the guards when they reached their destination, and they bowed and closed the door to the Concilliar room, though Sef knew they remained on the other side, in case some unhappy lord or lady decided to assassinate him.

Sef found himself alone in the Concilliar room. It was awfully bleak and grey, much like most of Darmont. Sef paced nervously, hands clasped behind his back, watching rain race down the windows, blurring the lifeless fields outside – night was beginning to fall. The King tried to focus on the books that took up much of the wall space but his eyes refused to distinguish any of the titles, so he turned his attention to the huge map that took up the table in the middle of the room. He smiled at the outlines of all the empires and countries and kingdoms, and the three dimensional figurines that stuck out from it.

His eyes landed on the golden statues of men, most of which were huddled in the continent named _Voubrenia,_ but some of which had been scattered in a bay, just outside of Wildeshell. Sef saw that one of the figures had been placed where Castle Darmont was painted on the map. Just one figure – him. It must have symbolised a certain amount of men – how many had Sef brought with him into the Castle? Two hundred? Three hundred? But on the map the figure looked awfully alone, separated from its comrades, away from its home country. That was how Sef felt; alone and abandoned. Except he wasn’t alone, not really, because there was a blue figurine that he hadn’t noticed before for it had been knocked over. Sef picked it up and set it next to the golden man. It was a blue skeletal king, a symbol of the Beaus. A symbol of Lysander.

Sef bit his lip again and pushed the figures a little closer together.

The door swung open with a violence Sef hadn’t expected, making him flinch away from the map as it slammed into the wall, chipping the stone. Two Voubren guards dragged a struggling Lysander in, an unimpressed Heroti stalking in behind them.

“Let me go!” Lysander fought, trying to wriggle his arms free of the soldiers’ grip, “I s-said-“

Sef stared at him. The regal, composed man he had seen sat on his throne days ago was nowhere to be seen; Lysander was dressed in a loose, white cotton nightshirt, thin breeches and no shoes. His pale brown hair was dishevelled and sticking up as if he had been struck by lightning, his eyes were sleepy and had dark bags under them and he looked like he hadn’t seen the sun in days. He didn’t look any less gorgeous, at least not to Sef, just younger and more vulnerable, and he still made Sef’s chest feel tight.

“Let go of him,” Sef commanded protectively and the soldiers did so immediately, making Lysander stumble. He turned around and glared at the soldiers, “Leave us,” Sef said quickly, afraid his Lord might make a run for the door.

“We’ll be just outside,” Heroti’s eyes scanned the room for possible weapons as he retreated with his soldiers, shutting the door behind them.

For a moment the room was filled only with the sound of rain _pit-pattering_ against the glass, and Lysander’s harsh breathing. The Lord turned to face Sef, eyes dark with anger, cheeks flushed from exertion.

“Have you been taking a nap, my Lord?” those were the first words out of Sef’s mouth, teasing and light, trying to mask the nauseating nervousness he felt being in the presence of a man he had admired for so long. Lysander straightened up and hugged himself, only now realising he had been behaving like a plebeian, and not a proud Lord.

“There is not much else to do in my chambers,” he replied cordially, voice cold and dripping a hidden venom that was masked by good manners. Lys’ bare toes curls away from the cold stone floor and he hugged himself harder. Now that the guards were gone and he had nobody to fight, the cold seeped in. Only moments ago he had been happily buried in his bed, next to the roaring fireplace, and now he was freezing in the Concilliar room, looking at his enemy and being forcefully reminded of his dire situation. Lys clenched his teeth so they wouldn’t clatter – God, how he hated being cold.

“Apologies,” Sef replied, though he didn’t sound so sorry after all. Lys bitterly found that the cold and grey weather of Wildeshell did nothing to take away the glow of Sef’s dark skin, or matte his silky black locks. His eyes, circled with kohl, were still sparkling with mischief and his vibrant blue fur stood out against the greyness of the room.

Lysander hadn’t wanted to see him, made a _point_ of not seeing him. But alas, he was here now, “I’d like to send some letters,” he said curtly, subtly rubbing his arms in an attempt to help them retain heat.

Sef raised an eyebrow, “Letters? To whom, may I ask?”

Lys clenched his jaw, “The King,” he saw no point in lying, Sef was smart enough to figure it out alone. The King smiled, a smile of infuriating pity.

“I _am_ the King,” he pointed out.

“King Ormond,” Lysander spat.

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, my Lord.”

“I didn’t think so,” Lysander looked away sharply, quenching his anger, “Why am I here, my Lord? I’d like to keep this quick if possible, and return to my prison cell.”

A pang of phantom pain went through Sef. He wanted to tell Lysander that he _wasn’t_ a prisoner, that he could go anywhere he wanted in the castle, that Sef would do everything to keep him happy and entertained. But he knew his words would fall on deaf ears.

“I’m afraid we started off on the wrong foot,” Sef said, keeping his tone friendly and open as he slowly circled the table, walking towards Lys. The Lord flinched, but forced himself to remain where he stood, not wanting to show weakness even as his heart started to pound. “I would like to apologise for my violent actions regarding your country, but I was spurred on by my passion and infatuation with you.”

Sef stood at Lys’ side, a few steps away, and reluctantly Lysander turned to face him. It was only polite. When he did he saw that Sef was holding out a golden package. Lys frowned, “What is this?”

“A gift,” Sef said, and just as Lysander opened his mouth to protest, he continued, “I insist you take it. It doesn’t mean anything if you do, it’s not a contract you’re signing,” it was as if he knew exactly what Lysander was thinking, “it’s just something that I picked out for you in Voubrenia, and thought you might like.”

“You behave as if you know me, and yet we have barely met,” Lysander said. Sef smiled somewhat hopefully.

“Open the gift and see if you’re right.”

Hesitantly Lysander took the package from Sef, careful to not touch his hands. The square felt somewhat heavy in his hands and Lys brought it over to the map table to unwrap it. His eyes landed on the Beau skeleton and the Voubren man standing on Darmont together, but he ignored it in favour of seeing the gold silk fall away from the gift; already it was more luxurious than any material in the Castle.

Sef anxiously watched Lys’ back as he unwrapped the present, his anxiety spiking. _Please like it,_ he thought, worrying at his bottom lip, _please don’t throw it at my head._ The last of the silk fell away, revealing a leather brown cover. A book. Lysander’s brows furrowed and with bated breath he opened it. The pages felt rough between his fingers, the same kind of paper that Sef’s letters had been written on, and the pages were covered in rows and rows of writing in Brenii and illustrated with gorgeous paintings of all the different geographical locations in all the countries. Lysander gasped audibly, quietly, as his fingers continued to flip through the book, eyes dancing over the gorgeous writing and even lovelier pictures. Nothing of such beauty existed in Beauralt, none of the books on the shelves of the Concilliar room compared to the magnificence of this gift.

“I-,” for a moment Lys forgot who had given him this.

Suddenly the Lord felt a warmth descend on his shoulders and he jumped, whirling around. Sef had taken his cloak off and draped it around Lys’ shoulders. The Lord stared at him in shock, mouth open, a soft white cloud appearing when he breathed out.

“You were shivering, my Lord,” Sef said, almost apologetically.

Lysander wanted to give the fur back, it was only right, but he _despised_ being cold, and the cloak chased away the chill and replaced it with a delicious heat like molten chocolate. Lysander cleared his throat and looked down, accepting this small defeat.

“I...,” Sef also cleared his throat, unsure of what to say, “I know you like to read. I had the book made especially for you.”

“How did you know?” he looked up and met Sef’s eyes, “That I liked to read?”

Sef’s mouth twitched into a small smirk, “I have eyes everywhere, my Lord, in all of the courts in the world, even yours.”

Lysander tensed, “I thank you for the gift, my Lord,” he said bluntly, “But I cannot accept it.”

“But you can-,” Sef protested, but Lysander interrupted him sharply.

“Why am I here?” he demanded, “is this what you dragged me from my chambers for, to give me this poisoned gift of yours? Do you think a book will make me forget your actions, and that what you are asking of me is sin?!” Lys’ voice raised in anger with each word, and he could barely control it. Sef was shocked at the outburst; it was not the reaction he had hoped for.

The King stepped towards Lysander, and the Lord’s anger evaporated, replaced by nervousness as he subconsciously took a step back. The small of his back touched the table and he reminded himself that he had to stand strong and not run from Sef, no matter how unnerving the way he looked at him was.

Sef stopped just a few inches from Lysander, who stood firm and tense, hands gripping the edge of the table. He tried to understand Sef’s expression, but his eyes were unreadable as he examined Lysander, trying to make sense of all the puzzle pieces he was made up of. Then his expression changed. The sudden intensity of his gaze, the pure shameless confidence behind it, made Lys shiver from something other than the cold.

“What?” he blurted, “What is it?”

Just like that, the King’s expression softened and a sort of emotion Lys couldn’t place flooded his face. Sef watched as Lys trembled, so close to him and yet so unattainable. For so many months they had written to each other and Sef had marvelled at Lysander’s stubbornness, and bravery, and loyalty to his country. He knew his whole life story, knew his family history, and yet only now he was truly seeing him. The man in front of him wasn’t some distant Lord on a throne, but a real _person,_ with lips that were turning a little blue and pale, strong hands, and grey eyes full of uncertainty and fear. But it wasn’t Sef that Lysander was scared of; somewhere deep down he knew the King wouldn’t hurt him. What Lysander was scared of was the heat in the pit of his stomach that had been kindled by another man standing so close to him, _improperly_ close.

Sef reached out and touched Lys’ right cheek with the tips of his fingers, couldn’t stop himself. As expected, Lysander flinched at the sudden touch and his eyes filled with confusion. Yet Lys didn’t move away; in his head, it was because he wanted to stand his ground. In Sef’s mind, it was because he couldn’t deny a part of himself he had been trying to suppress all his life.

Encouraged, Sef slid his hand further, until his palm was cupping Lys’ cheek, his paleness making a beautiful contrast against Sef’s darkness. The King brushed his thumb over Lys’ cheekbone.

“You,” his voice cracked with emotion, “are absolutely perfect.”

Heat rose to Lys’ cheeks and he couldn’t bear but to look away. His knees felt weak, and he couldn’t remember how to breathe. It felt as if Sef was undressing him with his eyes, and his touch seared Lys’ skin in the most delightful way. Nobody had touched him like that before, nobody had even _looked_ at him in a way that measured even close to the fierceness of Sef’s gaze. Lysander wracked his brain for a reply that would be acceptable in this moment, some kind of way to tell Sef about how wrong this whole thing was, but he couldn’t piece his thoughts together and could focus only on how close Sef was, how soft his palm was against Lys’ cheek, how he chased away the cold of the room.

 _No, no, no._ Lys tried to picture the disappointed face of his mother in his head, but all he saw was the deep pools of the night sky that were Sef’s eyes as he leaned closer.

“Marry me, Lysander,” he whispered, his free hand coming to cup Lys’ other cheek. The Lord’s eyes fluttered shut for just a second and he forcefully fought the man’s allure. He had spent years ignoring the dreams in which strong hands and muscled backs made an appearance, hid his lack of desire for a wife beneath the excuse of work.

“N-No,” Lys breathed, but this time Sef didn’t feel disappointed because he could see the Lord’s expression, the flush of his cheeks, and knew that Lysander didn’t hate him, didn’t hate _this,_ at least not completely. And Sef had never been a patient man, or had much restraint, so the next part was not unexpected, though it still shocked Lys.

Sef kissed him on the mouth, in the same way that he did everything else; with crushing confidence, and passion, and no consideration for consequences. He pushed Lys harder against the table, so their bodies pressed together as his hot mouth moved against Lys’. His hands on the Lord’s face prevented him from moving away, but honestly Lys didn’t think he would have even if they weren’t there, and for now they made for a good excuse as to why Lysander was allowing this to happen. The truth was the moment Sef’s lips touched his, an unbearable heat exploded inside him, sizzling over his skin and making him want to moan. Sef’s mouth was demanding, his wet tongue pushing feverishly against Lys’ lips until the surprised Lord let him in, allowing for the King to explore the inside of his mouth and lay claim to it the way he had done to his Castle.

Lysander’s hands came up to push Sef away, but somehow they lost their purpose and uselessly pressed against the King’s abdomen, just resting there. Lys had never been kissed and his head spun with every second that Sef touched him, making it impossibly hard to think. A thought that did briefly cross Lys’ mind was that it was obscene to be doing this in this room, from where his father had ruled the country and where all his Masters had stood. If they could see him now what would they-

Sef bit at Lys’ bottom lip, not painfully, but enough to send a violent shiver up the Lord’s spine and make him gasp. The King tasted like coffee, and Lys’ lips were chapped from the harsh winds of Wildeshell, though Sef didn’t mind. Kissing him, being able to touch him, was incredible and the King salvaged every second he got pressed up against the Lord’s strong body. And yet with every moment he wanted more, he wanted Lysander to be his completely.

The Lord pushed him away, breathing hard and blushing like a virgin. Sef took a few steps back, unable to stop himself from grinning as Lys leaned against the table and tried to catch his breath. Neither of them knew how long they had been kissing for, but outside it began to rain harder. Realisation dawned on Lys and guilt settled heavily in his stomach. He had sinned, he had given in to this man.

“Why won’t you marry me, Lysander?” Sef asked, heartened by the debauched way Lys looked, the swell of his bottom lip. He hadn’t hated it, and that was important.

“This is wrong,” Lysander said hoarsely. He ripped Sef’s cloak off his shoulders and threw it at the floor between them, angry that he didn’t feel cold – the memory of Sef’s touch kept a fire burning inside him. But he wasn’t angry with Sef; the King had done exactly what was expected of him and taken what he wanted. It was Lysander who had disappointed, being weak to the whispers of desire. So many years he had repressed it, and one man had made him doubt everything, “You invaded my country, you’re a _man,_ you’re a...,” Lys’ mind felt like liquid.

“All meaningless reasons,” Sef said, irritated. He picked his cloak up, “If we had been two men, living in a remote cottage somewhere, none of those things would have mattered.”

“Yes, they would,” Lysander argued fiercely.

“You liked that kiss,” Sef replied confidently. Lys flushed.

“No, I didn’t,” he said, straightening up.

Sef grabbed his arm and pulled the Lord against him, but this time Lys fought back. There were the same height and of a similar build, but Lysander was confused and dazed, and Sef used that to his advantage, getting the Lord up against the closest wall and caging him in with his body, pinning him against the stone to prevent him from trying to escape.

“The only reason I invaded,” Sef gritted out, fighting to keep Lys in his place and restraining his arms against the wall, “was because of you.”

“Why?” Lys didn’t understand, “Why _me?”_

“You are respected,” Sef said, huffing out a laboured laugh as he managed to keep Lys pressed into the wall, “your reputation is great.”

“Is that it? That’s the reason for all this – my _reputation?”_ Lysander demanded, still trying to fight Sef but to no avail. The King’s expression softened.

“Of course not,” he said in such a tone that Lys went slack in his grip. “You are incredibly stubborn, Lysander,” the Lord’s name on the King’s tongue was like honey and Lys felt himself melting like warm candle-wax, “and you are brave, and intelligent, and incredibly beautiful.”

Lysander stared at him in shock, and then his face flooded with embarrassment, “It is a sin,” he barked.

Sef’s expression darkened and he kissed Lysander again, violently this time with their teeth clashing and Lys’ head smacking painfully against the wall. Lysander managed to wriggle his arms free and shoved Sef off, but the King was angry now.

“Stop it!” he yelled “Stop acting all righteous and admit you want me back.”

“I don’t!” Lys panted, but they both knew it was a lie. Sef pressed up against him again and when Lys tried to push him away again, the King grabbed his wrists.

“Do that again and there will be consequences,” he growled threateningly. Lys froze, shocked by how angry Sef had gotten, and the King kissed him forcefully once more. Lys bit back a whimper but decided he didn’t want to find out what the ‘consequences’ of this would be. He went rigid in Sef’s grip, which just enraged Sef more.

He licked at Lys’ lips, but the Lord firmly kept him out until Sef bit on his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. The gasp that followed allowed for Sef to shove his tongue back into his mouth. He kissed Lys in a bruising manner; he bit at his lips and then pushed a leg between Lys’. There he felt a hardness against his thigh, and reeled his head back in shock.

Lys hadn’t even realised he had gotten aroused until that moment, and the feeling of Sef’s leg against his erection made him jolt. He looked at the King with glassy, confused eyes, and saw the anger seep from Sef’s eyes, replaced by awe.

“I-,” Lys started. Sef let go of his arms and gently pushed Lys’ hair from his forehead. He leaned in and nuzzled their noses together sweetly, making Lys want to desperately press himself against him. How could this be so wrong, when it felt so good to be touched by Sef?

“It’s alright,” Sef kissed him, gently this time, “It’s alright.”

Lysander shook his head, “No it’s not,” he tried to turn away but Sef grabbed his chin and forced another kiss on him and the problem was Lysander _liked_ it. Sef took the Lord’s arm and threw it over his own shoulder and Lys found his fingers sliding into the King’s hair on their own accord, and his mouth moving against his will. He was kissing back, and he accepted that it was because he had no other choice, because Sef was _making_ him do it. When the Voubren rubbed his thigh against Lys’ crotch the Lord kissed him harder to muffle a moan that threatened to escape.

Sef felt as light as a feather when Lys kissed him back. Rain pounded insistently on the windows, drowning out the music that played in the Great Hall, and the laughter that echoed through the corridors. Lys was cold and Sef was determined to warm him up as their tongues slid together in a messy, wet dance. Lysander wasn’t a very good kisser, his movements sloppy and clumsy, but Sef loved every moment of it, every little stumble, every surprised gasp, it made it feel as if he and Lys were the only two people in the world.

Sef’s hands slid down Lys’ sides and he marvelled at the shiver he received. He wondered how far he could go before the Lord’s piousness inevitable stopped him. He brushed his hands over Lysander’s muscled stomach and rested them on his narrow hips, feeling the protruding hipbone there. And then, in a burst of bravery, he slid his hand lower and cupped the Lord’s erection with his hand.

They both froze; Lys from the shot of _something_ that went through him in a burst of heat, and Sef because he was terrified of Lys’ reaction. They stopped kissing and started at each other for a second that stretched into eternity, erratic breaths quietly escaping their parted lips.

Finally, Lys moved.

“Don’t.” He said and wrapped his fingers around Sef’s wrists, trying to push his hand away, “Don’t-“

Sef kissed him again, harder than before and shoved his hand into Lys’ breeches. The Lord let out a muffled gasp, then a muffled protest, but Sef ignored both, thrusting his tongue into his prisoner’s mouth. They struggled against each other – Lys to get out of Sef’s grip and away from the fire that erupted in his gut when the King touched his cock, and Sef to keep Lys against the wall.

Sef won, mostly because he began to stroke Lysander’s member, his rough palm dragging against the man’s flesh and causing his knees to shake. Lys’ world tilted and for a moment he was only aware of the friction against his erection and Sef’s wet mouth against his.

“S-Stop,” he gasped weakly when Sef pulled away for some air.

“You like it,” the King grunted, “stop pretending you’re so righteous.”

Lysander was ashamed that he was even aroused; he tried to think of God and ask for forgiveness but his brain felt like soup, and Sef relentlessly stroked him, his eyes focused intensely on Lys’ face. Anybody could have walked in and seen Lysander there, the Lord Protector Wildeshell, melting against the wall because a foreign man was touching him sinfully. Lys desperately tried to remind himself that this was wrong, that it was disgusting and unnatural, but Sef was so _close,_ and he filled all parts of Lysander’s brain. His hands, his mouth, his smell, those were the only things Lysander could focus on.

Lys gave in with a breathy moan, turning his head to the side in shame. Sef kissed just below his ear and bit at his earlobe,.

“There you go,” Sef murmured warmly, his hand slowing down as his thumb brushed over the head of Lys’ cock, and the precum that had gathered there, “Good boy.”

Lysander shoved Sef back, hard. The man was shocked by the sudden turn of events and stumbled, ripping his hand out of Lys’ breeches. The Lord Protector glared at him, panting. He was not a child, or a dog, or some whore, and somehow those two words – _good boy –_ had pulled him out of his daze.

“Lysander-,” Sef began, realising that he had made a mistake.

“I want to go back to my room,” Lys growled.

Sef cleared his throat and straightened out his shirt, confused and conflicted. He inclined his head though, deciding to lay down his sword for today. He didn’t want to _force_ Lysander, not properly anyway, “As you wish, my Lord. Heroti!” he called for his Captain.

Lysander walked, flanked by two Voubren guards, gnawing at his lower lip. His footsteps bounced off the stone walls that seemed to vibrate with the sound of music and laughter that Lys was not privy to. All he could think about was Sef’s kisses and touch, feel their memory on his skin, and curse himself for the way he had given into his desires. Sef was a seducer, sent to Lys’ castle to tempt him with sin, and Lysander had bent to his will.

“I want to go to the chapel,” he told the guards in Brenii, and they whispered their consent respectfully. Lysander confidently walked down a short corridor, and thankfully the Chapel was just next door to the Concilliar room so he didn’t have to go far, or encounter any of the other ‘prisoners.’ When the guards tried to follow him inside though, Lys in he turned to them, “Please,” he said, “This is a place of worship. Stay outside.”

The guards exchanged looks but said nothing, and Lys closed the door behind himself, exhaling and leaning against it. He was alone. His eyes fluttered around the room so familiar to him, the one in which he hated to be in as a child, listening to long, monotonous sermons, and one in which he had been hailed the Lord Protector, and the one which he had neglected to visit in the past few months.

Lysander walked between the wooden pews like a ghost, and a golden chandelier hung over his head. Whereas the rest of Darmont was drab and grey, the Chapel was opulent and beautiful. Rain pounded on the windows fitted in with painted glass depicting God raising the believers of Ilyndo from the dead. In the centre of the room was a wishing-well, decorated in stone flowers. All the pews faced it and Lysander walked up to it, peering into its murky waters, very, very far down. They reflected his pale face back at him, and the chandelier hanging from the ceiling covered in artwork.

“Forgive me,” Lysander choked and fell to his knees, pressing his forehead against a cold stone lily, “I have sinned against you, Almighty.”

Lysander stayed in the chapel for hours, until his knees were sore and he couldn’t feel his feet, and the rain outside had ceased and night had fallen. The party continued in the Castle, but behind the closed doors of the Chapel Lys couldn’t hear it, all he could hear was his own guilt circulating his mind. When he exited back into the corridor he felt as if a lifetime has passed and he had grown old.

“To your chambers, my Lord?” one of the Brenii guards asked respectfully – they both stood where Lys left them.

A couple stumbled up the stairs between the Concilliar Room and the Chapel and Lysander flinched. The woman’s face was painted white and her lip was a daring red. When she ran, her huge skirt flourished around her like a flower. She was giggling and glancing behind her shoulder at the man who pursued her, wearing one of the twisted wooden masks that the Voubren had brought. Neither of them so much as spared Lys a second glance, too drunk to realise their Lord was right there, or perhaps just not caring. Lysander remembered that he was still wearing his night-clothes. The chapel had been warmed by the candles strewn around, but here in the hallway it was chilly. He hugged himself, embarrassed.

“Yes, to my chambers.”

**Later that night, halfway across the world.**

**An inn, Antasa, Hadia.**

**The Shairin Empire.**

****

“Here you go, pretty ladies,” the boy who had not yet reached adulthood, and whose dark chin was covered in sparse black hair, smiled at the two women and placed down two cups full of spice wine on the low table in front of them with a dramatic flourish.

“Thank you,” the older one said stoically, nudging her caramel hair over her shoulder as she offered the boy a copper piece. He smiled at her, ignoring the amused giggles of her dark-haired, pale-skinned companion, and sauntered off, disappearing into the crowd that filled the inn.

“I don’t know why we do this,” Burha bristled, angrily grabbing her cup and swallowing a hefty sip of the cheap liquor that did not compare in the slightest to the rich, expensive stuff they had back at the Harem.

“It’s tradition,” Eryel said, smile softening as she reached her hand out across the table to grasp the one belonging to her lover, their intertwined fingers an interlock of brown and cream.

“You know I like it,” the raven-haired woman continued, stroking the soft back of her lover’s hand with her thumb that had long ago lost its calluses.

They did this whenever they could, when they had a spare evening they’d steal away in the throbbing heart of Antasa, dressed in the peasant clothing they have owned for years and had bought at the market, and for a night they sat in a common inn and drink and laugh and kiss, and didn’t worry about the politics of their country. And in the pale light of dawn they’d return to the Harem to lay in the plush bed they shared with Kater, and fall asleep holding each other. Seraf knew of it, and he happily allowed it; it was a ritual he knew both of the women adored, though Burha was always more harsh about, as she was with everything else in their lives.

“I know,” she now admitted begrudgingly, smiling back hesitantly at the woman she loved. They completed each other perfectly – where Burha was stubborn and serious, Eryel was free and full of life – and understood each other without a word. Burha brought her lover’s hand to her mouth and kissed her palm and Eryel smiled over the rim of her cup as she took a drink.

“Should we talk about it?” she asked carefully.

Burha sighed and her grip went slack and she tried to draw her hand back, but Eri held on strong, ignoring Burha’s pointed look, “Must we?”

“Yes,” Eri said, “it makes me angry, and I want to talk about it.”

“Alright,” Burha took a sip of her drink with her free hand, “Talk.”

Eryel began with a long, deep sigh the way she always did when something was bothering her, her bony shoulders sinking beneath her ratty cloak as if she were an old woman, “Somehow it seems unfair,” she started in a soft, sad voice, the light of the candle on the table reflecting in her mesmerising brown eyes, “that we get to have all this happiness, we get to live together in a beautiful palace and eat really, _really_ good food, and lounge around on silk pillows feeding each other grapes all day, while Ari has to sacrifice himself and be so miserable.”

“There are plenty of miserable people in the world, Eri,” Burha pointed out. She had never been poor, never seen the pain in the world that Eryel had before she came to the Harem. The dark-haired girl exhaled.

“I know,” she murmured, voice like honey, “But Ari is the kindest little soul, and he deserves a happy ever after ahead of all of us. I don’t think he ever hurt a bug in his life.”

“He did,” the corner of Burha’s mouth twitched into a small, fond smile, “a few weeks after I moved into the Harem. He stepped on a titan beetle while he and Gus were playing in the courtyard. Cried for three days and insisted on giving it a funeral.”

Eryel mirrored her smile, “That’s our Ari, always so kind. And Gus too. And, _fuck,”_ Eryel swore loudly and Burha glanced around to ensure nobody heard, but people were too busy telling stories and laughing and drinking and dancing and toasting to the happiness of the Prince and his fiancée to notice, “they love each other so much, Burha,” Eryel grabbed the woman’s dark hand with both of hers to convey her passion, “Everyone knows it, hell everyone but them.”

“I know,” Burha said sadly. Eryel puffed out her cheeks in frustration and then sat up straighter.

“In conclusion,” She released Burha’s hand and drained her cup in one go, “We must encourage them to elope.”

“Don’t be ludicrous,” Burha scoffed, not amused because she knew Eryel was serious. In her mind everything was easy, every problem was solvable. It was the mentality of someone from the lower class who didn’t have the fate of the country resting on her decisions, and it was one of the reasons Burha loved Eri so much. It was Eri’s bravery, to steal kisses from Burha when Seraf wasn’t looking when they first got married, her loud proclamation to their husband that she and Burha wanted to be exclusively together several months later, that made their relationship possible. Burha, for all her intimidation, didn’t have half the guts Eri did.

“It’s the only way,” Eryel argued.

A commotion began outside, and Burha turned around to look at the door as she heard shouting, while the raven-haired woman ignored the ruckus of shouting voices and reached for her lover’s cup, draining it with a sullen expression. Burha frowned as people from their inn rushed to the door to see what was happening.

“ _Prince!”_ someone shouted from outside, “ _It’s the Prince!”_

“Wait here,” Burha commanded with authority and stood from the table at which they had sat cross-legged. She walked out onto the street packed with people travelling to and fro the many inns that lined the street. Everything was bathed in golden light of candle-lamps hanging between buildings on strings, and in their illumination Burha spotted a familiar face.

Omarian stood isolated from the crowd, eyes wide like plates and full of fear. He was wringing his hands out the way he always did, and looked anxiously at the people that was slowly gathering around him, keeping their distance but shouting and pointing as if he was a zoo exhibit. It was unmistakably Ari; he had a peachy, partly translucent shirt on, and a golden circlet in his dark, wavy hair.

 _Idiot,_ Burha thought, swallowing down the urge to scold him like a child. She had no idea how the boy had gotten into the city, but he hadn’t brought any guards, not even Gus from the looks of it, and was dressed plainly in the finery and jewels of a Prince. _Did he think he could walk around unnoticed?_ Behind him, on a hill, shimmered the lights of the Harem.

“Are you the Prince?” someone demanded plainly. Ari’s lower lip trembled and he looked like he would cry. This wasn’t what he had wanted, he wanted to get away from the Harem because of scary people and wanted to come see the city because it was bright and full of music, and yet now he found himself surrounded by strangers, standing oppressively close. He felt like he was suffocating.

“Space!” Burha bellowed with the confidence of someone who always got their way. She stepped into the circle that had naturally formed around Ari, “That is not the Prince, fools!” she glared at the crowd, who exchanged confused, drunken glances, “The wine had gone to your heads! This is my younger brother, he plays a Prince with our performing troupe and has stayed in costume for the festivities; come tomorrow to the town square to see us perform a rendition of what will undoubtedly be a dramatic and raunchy wedding of the Prince and his fiancée!”

The Shairin were not an untrustworthy people, and they were not a problematic people, and they loved entertainment. Cups were raised, and cheers sounded at the prospect of seeing some debauchery.

“To the Prince!” a man bellowed, thrusting his cup of wine into the air. It sloshed over the side and the people echoed him and dispersed as quickly as they had appeared, lured into the inns by the promise of more alcohol and dancing. Burha felt two small, sweaty hands grip one of hers and she looked to the side to see Arian virtually pressed into her side, eyes downcast in the manner that told her that he knew he had done something wrong. He looked like a child about to get shouted at.

“Come,” Burha gritted, and pulled him into the inn. He went meekly, like a sheep, so relieved that Burha had found him that he almost passed out.

Eryel was shocked to see them, “What is he doing here?” she hissed as Burha shoved Ari down at their table, his head hung low.

“I don’t know,” the woman snapped, “Omarian, would you kindly explain to us what you are doing outside of the Harem at this hour _unguarded?”_

Ari sniffled.

“Don’t start,” Burha growled.

“Burha,” Eryel hissed at her, reaching for Ari’s hand and squeezing it, “Stop it, he’s clearly upset.”

Ari was glad for the comfort as he fought back tears. Earlier he had been so confident this would work; he had made a cohesive plan in his head, tried to be _smart_ for once, and it had backfired – he had wanted to go down to the town and dance, then buy a camel and go to the sea and watch the waves, away from Gahr and the crushing duties he had to perform for the fortnight before the wedding. Eryel shuffled over to his side and curled an arm around his shoulders as if he were still a child, but it helped.

“I followed you,” he mumbled.

“Followed us?” Burha’s voice was still harsh. She was an adult, she couldn’t pretend this was alright. She was glad she had found Arian and that he was safe, but furious that he had been foolish enough to do this.

“G-Gus and I did it before,” Ari’s eyes welled with tears of fear, “w-when we were younger. We f-followed you into town.”

“W-What?!” Burha spluttered.

“Shush,” Eri remained calm, rubbing Ari’s arm, “is Gus with you?”

Ari shook his head in denial, “N-No I came alone. I-I just don’t want to g-get married...”

The sound of Eryel’s and Burha’s hearts breaking simultaneously could almost be heard over the music of the inn. At once, Burha’s anger evaporated, replaced only by aching pity and helplessness. Eryel hugged Ari to her, and the boy started crying.

“I-I hate him,” he sobbed quietly as Eri shushed him warmly, “I-I hate Gahr I don’t _want_ to m-marry him, I-I don’t want to s-share his bed. I-I just w-want...,” he trailed off, realising how weak and stupid he was thinking he could ever do something like this and get away with it. He hadn’t even made it past the first few streets of Antasa without being recognised. As always, he was useless.

“Ari,” Burha exhaled, “You can’t just run away. Think about how worried Seraf and your mother are going to be. Think about Gus, how much it will hurt him to know you left without him.”

Ari’s cheeks went red and tears dripped down his chin, “I-I-I’m sorry,” he was getting panicked, “B-But Gus...h-he...h-h-he...”

“Hey now, hey,” Eryel cradled his head into her practically non-existent bosom, “It’s fine.”

“I-I woke up and I couldn’t m-move again and he w-wasn’t there-“

“You can sleep in our bed,” Eri comforted him, knowing that being with someone always helped. The wives and Ari had had countless sleepovers together where they shared stories and jokes and giggled until it was very, very late. The offer calmed Ari down considerably.

“I-I just...,” he wiped his dripping nose on his arm, “I-I wanted to go f-far away,” he admitted, knowing how pathetic he was being, “But I got lost,” he started to tear up again, “b-because Gus always knows the way a-and I just follow b-but he isn’t here, he-,” he looked up at the women and his eyes were so full of pain it was unbearable, “Why d-doesn’t he want to run away with me?”

“I think it’s best if we return to the Palace,” was Burha’s only, hollow reply.

“Let me look for him!” Gus demanded, trying to make his way past Seraf, but the Leahil just moved to block him again, hands on the man’s shoulders, “Seraf, I swear to _fuck-“_

“Calm down,” the Leahil’s voice was measured, but more commanding than Gus’ breathless, angry shouts. He rarely got like this, and Seraf didn’t know how to control him and for now his aim was to just keep Gus away from the main gate, “I’ve got my best men out in the city, they’ll find Ari soon and bring him back, don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry?!” Gus shouted, taking a few steps away from his ruler and running a hand through his usually neat, slicked back hair that was now messy from all his anxious tugging. His face was red and he was breathing hard from trying to repress his anger, worry gnawing at his stomach, “Don’t worry?! He’s out there _all alone!_ He’ll be panicking, and crying, and somebody might hurt him-“

“ _Augustus,”_ Seraf said sharply, “Calm. Down.”

Gus exhaled, “Apologies,” he managed, running his hand through his hair once more, “But I just-“

Seraf reached out and clasped the man’s shoulder, eyes dark and serious, “I know,” he said firmly, “He’s my little brother, I’m worried too. But we need to give Ari some credit, he’s not as helpless as you think – I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

Gus’ shoulders dropped in dejection, “I just don’t understand why he’d leave. He’s never done it before, not without me anyway.”

“Did you fight with him?” Seraf questioned. Gus bit his lip. Ari had been weird and distant for the past few days, and instead of being there for him through the stress of his engagement, Gus had been distancing himself. It was no wonder Arian felt the need to run away alone, but it still hurt to know that Gus was being pushed out.

“No,” the man replied dully.

“Leahil!” a guard barked from the gate, and both the men turned just as Arian walked into the courtyard, flanked by Eryel and Burha. The former was smiling sheepishly, her arm curled through Ari’s, while the latter had a stern, angry expression on. Arian himself was staring at the ground, hair hiding his expression.

Relief swarmed over Gus and he wobbled on his feet, lightheaded, as Seraf rushed forward.

“Ari,” he gushed, and gathered his brother into a fierce hug, “You fool.”

“’m sorry,” Ari sniffled, pressing his face into his brother’s strong shoulder and feeling comforted by his familiar smell. His thin arms came to hug the older man’s broad back and he fought back tears. He had thought Seraf would be angry and shout, but the embrace dissolved all of his fears. How cruel had he been, running with no thought of how it would affect his family. Now, being squeezed by Seraf, he remembered that he had a duty to the Abazza’s, and loyalty to his brother, “I won’t do it again,” he whispered.

“I’m just glad you’re safe,” Seraf released Ari from his grip and looked over the boy, “Are you hurt?”

“He’s fine-,” Burha began, but Eri squeezed her hand and smiled at Seraf.

“We took him to an inn with us, sorry it was-“

“Don’t lie,” Ari said, suddenly and sharply, making the woman fall silent. The courtyard stared at him, the guards at the gates glancing at him, then at each other. Seraf felt a chill creep over his skin as he watched his little brother, the tension in his jaw, the subdued anguish in his eyes, “I ran away because I do not want to marry Gahr.”

“Ari-,” Seraf began with a heavy heart, ready to give Arian the same talk he had given him every time the Prince protested meeting his fiancée.

“But,” the boy interrupted, raising his chin. His bottom lip wobbled but he didn’t cry, “I understand it’s my duty, and I’ll do it, and I won’t run away again, so I’m sorry.”

“ _Ari,”_ Seraf’s voice cracked. He would have preferred if the Prince didn’t force himself to be so strong in this moment, because they both knew how much pain he was really in.

“Is mother angry?” Ari asked, voice a little softer.

“We haven’t told her, best not to worry her,” Seraf smiled kindly. He was always so kind, “but you’re all-right now, so let’s keep this a secret.”

The boy nodded, and then his dark eyes slid over Seraf’s shoulder. He frowned.

“Where did Gus go?” he asked, shoulders slumping. All of a sudden he looked lost. Seraf turned and saw an empty courtyard behind him, as if the shadows of the night had swallowed Augustus up. He sighed.

“He has duties to attend to.”

Just like that Ari’s resolve broke. He couldn’t be a proper good Prince like Seraf was, he was ruled by emotions too intensely. He sprinted across the courtyard, ignoring the shouts of his brothers and his wives behind him, and turned into the dark arched door that led into the hallway. He barrelled after Gus and caught up with the troubled Odelian by the empty, dark dining room.

“Gus!” Ari gasped out, grabbing his friend’s hand. The Odelian whirled around, shocked, because he had been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t heard him approach. _I must be more alert._

He forced a smile, “You gave us all an awful fright,” he tried to ignore the warmth travelling through his body from where Ari was touching him.

“G-Gus I-,” Ari tried to find the right words, but he felt stripped away from his strength when he looked at Gus. He had told himself, on the trek back to the Harem, that he would be regal and polite and well-mannered from now on, that he wouldn’t be emotional and that he’d do his duty and be strong like Gus and Seraf. But being in front of his best friend made him feel naked and vulnerable, because Gus made him feel so safe that Ari didn’t feel the need to be strong. His expression crumbled, “Why didn’t you wait? Aren’t you happy I’m back?”

“I...,” Gus looked to the side and tried to subtly slip his hand out of Ari’s grip, but the boy just held on harder, “Of course I’m happy. I’m just...I, uh, I’m tired. I thought I could go to bed-“

“Don’t _lie,”_ Ari’s voice cracked with emotion.

Gus closed his eyes and looked up at the ceiling in a silent plea, “Ari, come on now,” he said with exasperation.

“Come on _what?”_

“Don’t start a fight with me,” Gus forcefully pulled his hand free. He couldn’t’ always put Arian first, this whole ordeal was painful for him too and he couldn’t always pretend he was fine.

Ari looked at him with the most helpless, heartbroken expression, “I love you,” he whispered, cradling his rejected hand to his chest with his other one and looking like a kicked puppy, “I love you so much,” he sniffled and bit his lip – too hard, Gus wanted to pull it from his teeth before he started bleeding, “Why don’t you love me back?”

Gus felt the urge to shake some sense into the Prince, “I _do_ love you, idiot, how many times must I tell you?!”

“But it’s not the same,” Ari argued heatedly, cheeks going red, “There’s a difference between loving someone and being _in_ love with someone – Kater explained it to me. I love Seraf because I want to spend time with him, and I love mama because she gives me hugs, and I love Burha even though she’s scary, and I love Eryel because she makes me laugh, and I love Kattie because she’s so, so kind. B-But you,” Ari had to stop to take a breath, “I’m _in_ love with _you,_ Gus. I want to kiss you, and I want to sleep in the same bed as you, and I-I want...,” his whole face burned, even his ears, and Gus stared at him in shock – somewhere in his head he knew all this, had _hoped_ for this, but hearing it out loud was intense. Ari looked away, embarrassed by blurting it all out, “a-and I don’t want to do that with anyone else,” he finished quietly.

Gus stared at him and tense silence settled over them. The corridor was dark, the candle-lamps casting deep shadows on the walls. It was late, and they were alone, and Gus just wanted to push Ari down to the floor and shower him in all the love and affection, so the boy would realise Gus felt the same.

“It’s impossible,” he said tensely.

Ari didn’t cry, he just felt really, _really_ angry, “No it’s not,” he whispered, “You just don’t want to.”

Then he turned and ran off the way he had done a hundred times before, but this time Gus didn’t chase him. He couldn’t chase him, wasn’t _allowed_ to. Sooner or later he’d have to let Ari go, and it was looking like it’d be sooner.

***

The bed dipped slightly and Ari’s eyes fluttered open. Through the open window moonlight streamed in, in silver ribbons that danced on the lush carpet and the canopy of the huge bed he was laying on. He watched it shift through the translucent curtains that were draped around the room.

“Sorry,” Kater whispered as she laid down next to the boy, her light brown hair spreading on the pillows, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Ari reached out and touched her cheek and she smiled, “You’re very warm, and your cheeks are red.”

“Yes,” Kater picked his hand off her cheek and interlocked their fingers, laying their hands on the pillow between them, “I was with Seraf.”

“I took your spot,” Ari mumbled, shifting backwards to give the woman more space. His back touched Eryel’s, who grunted something in her sleep, let out a little snore, and then draped her leg over Burha, who was laying next to her, “I thought you wouldn’t be back.”

“No,” Kater smiled a smile full of love, her face glowing, “Your brother likes to kick in his sleep, and he gets sweaty when it’s too hot,” they both giggled, “Besides, I like sleeping with the girls.”

“Me too,” Ari admitted. Kater frowned.

“Why are you here?” she asked. Ari used to climb into the bed of Seraf’s wives since he was a child – first he slept with just Burha, comforted by her scent and her arms lovingly curled around his body when he was only a little boy. In early adolescence he would squeeze between her and Eryel and bother Burha as he giggled through the night with Eri. Now the wives had a huge bed to accommodate all of them, and Ari still slept with them on occasion; if he had a nightmare, or if he became paralyzed at night, or if he was feeling sad. He started doing it more often recently, since last summer Gus had gently but adamantly established that they could no longer sneak into each other’s beds at night because they were ‘adults.’ Ari liked the wives because they didn’t judge him like the other people his age did; they put flowers in his hair and danced with him around the room, and sometimes Kater would allow him to wear one of her dresses, and Eri would tell him dirty stories. In this room with them, Ari didn’t feel like a freak the way he did in most other situations.

“I had a fight with Gus,” he admitted quietly. Kater’s chest filled with sadness. Oh if she could only make this sweet boy in front of her happy. She knew she, Eri and Burha, and Seraf and Gus and Therian would all move the sea to make Ari happy. But alas, the sea wouldn’t budge, and alliances had to be made.

“I’m so sorry, sweetie,” Kater murmured, squeezing Ari’s hand.

“I don’t think we’re friends anymore,” Ari confessed.

“Nonsense,” Kater kissed the tip of his nose playfully, “You and Gus will be friends till the day you die.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do,” Kater winked, and Ari felt better, “And I have a secret to tell you, but it must remain between us.”

Arian nodded eagerly – he loved secrets, he loved storing them in his heart and hiding them from the world, “Seraf and I are trying to have a baby.” Ari’s eyes were like saucers and Kater laughed quietly, “Yes. Would you like a little niece of nephew?”

“I love babies,” Ari whispered passionately, clutching Kater’s hand to his chest, “I’m going to love your baby. Do you think Gus and I can have one? Or three?”

“Would you two _shut up?”_ Burha grumbled from the other side of the bed.


	11. The Darkness Below the Deck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the slow updates guys, I'm going to try and put chapters out faster. Thankyou so much for the support.

**The next morning, not so far away, late summer.**

**The Harbour, Cheri, Hadia.**

**The Shairin Empire.**

****

“You have our eternal thanks,” Tomoya bowed in front of Arkana, who flushed a little, uncertain of how to react.

“There, there,” she said awkwardly as her siblings peeked at the foreigners from behind her skirt, “It was a pleasure having you both here. A pity I couldn’t have paid you more, you truly were a blessing in helping with this madness.”

Tomoya smiled at her and Ivo watched the exchange cluelessly, not understanding a word.

“Will your father be back soon?” Tomoya asked politely. Arkana inclined her head and smiled sweetly.

“Yes. He and my brothers should return by the evening, and the inn will run smoothly once more.”

“Yes,” Tomoya said, a little uncomfortable, “Well, thank you for everything.”

“Likewise,” Arkana replied smoothly, “if you ever find yourself in Cheri again don’t hesitate to come say hello.”

It warmed Tomoya’s heart, “Thank you,” he repeated, knowing that he would never return to the Empire again.

“Say goodbye, children,” Arkana reprimanded her siblings.

“Goodbye,” Nehane proclaimed loudly while her brother cowered behind Arkana shyly. Tomoya waved. Ivo didn’t say anything. The air was filled with rising heat of the morning, and a reluctant awkwardness of people who were not friends but not strangers either saying goodbye. Ivo was happy when he and Tomoya started to walk.

“She was kind,” Tomoya said in Kasha as the duo delved into the main streets of Cheri. Tomoya had walked to the Harbour multiple times already, and his feet led him there automatically. The tall, sandstone buildings of Cheri no longer seemed strange, and the man had almost gotten used to the constant noise of the crowded streets. He didn’t admit it out loud, but he knew he’d miss this place and remember it fondly.

“Yeah,” Ivo grumbled back, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Although it was well past dawn it was still too early for him, and he yearned to climb back into a soft bed. Instead he was forced to go on yet another uncertain adventure, this time on a ship. He just hoped their pillows were soft, and that he’d be able to relax a little on the voyage – the past months had taken a stressful toll on him.

The two walked in silence. The streets slowly filled up with people, giving them an excuse as to why they weren’t talking, but honestly the awkwardness from their last fight still hung in the air between them, making their relationship tenser than it already was. But as they approached the Harbour Tomoya started worrying about other things – what if Jaro once again changed the terms and there was no ship at all? If that happened, how furious would Ivo be? How explosive would their fight be?

Tomoya glanced at the boy walking alongside him. Ivo yawned, and the sunlight sparkled off his hair. Guilt crept up Tomoya’s chest when he saw the purple bruises on the boy’s throat – a sign that Tomoya had hurt him. The ex-Guardian had hurt a lot of people before, but this time he truly regretted it.

“ _Oh,”_ Ivo stopped in his tracks and gasped softly as the two rounded a corner and the Harbour came into view. The blond felt a tightness in his chest; he hadn’t seen the sea since the Odelians brought him to the Empire and the sight of the waves glimmering in the sunshine made tears well up in the boy’s eyes. He turned his head to the side and blinked them away before Tomoya could see, the realisation that he was _actually_ going home finally settling in.

Tomoya exhaled. The sight of the sea and the ships that crowded into the Harbour, and the dozens of sailors milling around, reminded him of his deal with Jaro. Would he have to marry today? Tomorrow? How much longer would he get as a bachelor? _You deserve this,_ Tomoya told himself firmly, re-adjusting the sack of clothes and food that Arkana had offered them as a parting gift, _you fell in love once and look how it ended. It’s time to repent._

“Let’s go,” Tomoya said stiffly and started towards the dock. Ivo shuffled down the slope after him, kicking up sand and bumping shoulders with huge, burly men. The Harbour was full of chaos and shouting – barrels were passed over heads, ropes thrown, goats herded. It was mayhem, and Ivo stuck to Tomoya’s back fearfully, afraid that he would be swept away just as he was so close to going home.

He grabbed the strap of Tomoya’s sack loosely, so they wouldn’t separate, “Which one is it?” he shouted into the Mairi’s ear over the noise. Tomoya cringed away from him.

“That one,” he pointed at _Sava,_ bobbing in the water nearby and dwarfed by two huge, Odelian ships on either side of it. Tomoya tried to ignore the row of exotic looking slaves shuffling off of one of them, hair dark and eyes downcast. Ivo’s hand tightened on the sack and his heart started to pound in anxiety. He had the ridiculous fear that one of the Odelian slavers would recognise him and he’d be taken again, though he knew that realistically it wouldn’t happen – the ship he had escaped from had left months ago.

Ivo focused on the sunny yellow sails of _Sava_ instead of his fear _,_ and his knees weakened – it was the first real symbol of home he had seen since he was kidnapped, and he couldn’t help but smile, the image of the slaves fading from his mind. However as he and Tomoya approached his elation ebbed away as he noticed the mouldy, scratched wood that made up the sides of the vessel, and the smell hit him – like old, old fish. Ivo wrinkled his nose and released Tomoya’s strap, just as a sailor appeared on the side of _Sava_ and unceremoniously dumped a bucket-full of fish-heads onto the planks of the harbour.

Ivo and Tomoya stumbled away and an angry Shairin who had been sprayed by the foul liquid began a shouting match with the Dukkosh on-board.

“Come on,” Tomoya grabbed Ivo’s hand on instinct and pulled him away. Both men felt overwhelmed, and neither acknowledged their physical contact, though their fingers dug into each other’s skin in something akin to comfort.

They climbed up the lowered wooden plank and onto the main deck, avoiding agitated, light-haired Dukkosh who scurried up and down, carrying kegs on their shoulders.

“Hey!” a visibly annoyed man stomped towards the boys as they stood on the deck, looking around like lost children. The sailor was very wide, almost square, and quite short though no less intimidating – Ivo reckoned the man had the biggest, bushiest beard he had ever seen, and huge, angry eyebrows to match underneath which dark brown eyes sparked with anger. “Get off this ship you rascals!” he bellowed in Kasha, and Ivo was stricken by hearing another person – someone other than Tomoya with his subtle but bizarre accent – speak his language. Neither of the boys moved, astounded by the man’s appearance, which only angered him more, “Don’t make me slit your worthless throats!” he screamed, spittle flying.

“Basil,” a new, calmer, though much hoarser voice, sounded. Captain Jaro appeared from behind a door on the side of the tree-mast, pipe in the corner of his mouth, wide-brimmed hat perched on his head, “That’s enough, these are the two new men I have hired.”

“ _Ack!”_ the bearded-man, Basil, spat angrily at the deck, “What for? The four rats we already have cause enough trouble!”

“There, there, old friend,” Jaro patted him on his broad, beefy shoulder. Next to hot-headed Basil he looked tall and almost elegant, “Get the sails up, I want to be out at sea by midday.”

Basil glared at a peeved Tomoya and Ivo one more time and then waddled off, grunting something to himself and joining the young, light-haired people who were securing the brilliant, yellow sails sprouting from the branches of the tree-mast.

Jaro exhaled a puff of grey smoke, “I am pleased you have made the right choice, boy,” he said, even though Tomoya hadn’t informed him of his decision yet. The Mairi swallowed, shoulders heavy.

“Yes,” he replied hollowly.

“You must be his friend,” Jaro’s piercing eyes turned to Ivo, who, to Tomoya’s surprise, smiled widely.

“I am,” he replied cheerfully, “My name is Ivo, son of Yankovi.”

He wasn’t intimidated by Jaro – he was like the many old men in the village, and reminded Ivo of his own father. The Captain puffed out another mouthful of smoke and took Ivo in; his slim build, wavy blond locks, sunburned cheeks. He decided he liked this youthful boy.

“Aye, I am Captain Jaro, and you shall refer to me as such. The dwarf you had just met is Basil, my Quartermaster, and he doesn’t take kindly strangers.”

“We gathered,” Tomoya whispered under his breath.

“In the event of my death he assumes the role of Captain,” a spark appeared in Jaro’s eyes, “if that were to happen, prepare to be thrown overboard by him. He’d man the ship alone if he could.”

“He certainly seems capable,” Ivo said casually, peering around Tomoya at where Basil, on the other end of _Sava,_ was shouting obscenities at a little blonde girl, no older than nine summers old, who was perched innocently on one of the branches of the mast, her curls billowing in the sea-breeze. She swung her legs happily, clearly unbothered by the furious man beneath her, biting on the peach and watching merrily as the juice from it landed in the sailor’s hair, enraging him more. Neither of them looked capable enough to run a ship, in Tomoya’s humble opinion.

“That isn’t your daughter, is it?” the ex-Guardian asked, paling at the sight of the child.

“Nay,” Jaro grumbled and coughed out a cloud of grey, “my little firecracker has gone to say goodbye to the town one last time, you will meet her in due time.” The man’s voice sounded much softer when he mentioned his child. Then he plucked his pipe from his mouth and loudly shouted – “TAVEL!”

A few seconds later a man emerged from the dark hole in the ground down which a ladder disappeared. Perhaps ‘man’ wasn’t the right word for him – he looked barely older than Ivo, with a mop of dark brown curls and a chiselled, handsome face that the blond didn’t fail to notice.

“Yes, Captain?” Tavel asked, shielding his eyes from the beaming sun and squinting, “Gunpowder’s almost ready.”

“Gunpowder?” Tomoya demanded, but was ignored.

“Tavel these are our new mates; take them downstairs and show them their hammocks and explain the ropes of _Sava_ to them.”

Tavel saluted the man, “Yes, Cap,” he smiled at Tomoya and Ivo – more welcoming than both the Captain and Basil, “Come on down, lads.”

They submerged themselves below deck, where the damp smell of mould grew stronger and irritated their noses. It was so dark that both of them stumbled on the rungs of the ladder and almost fell to the ground, before taking a minute for their eyes to adjust to the gloom. There were oval windows on the walls that peered out at sea but they did little to penetrate the murk.

As if understanding their blindness, Tavel produced a match and a long, thin candle from the pocket of his knee-length, leather brown coat and lit it. His face floated in the darkness like one of a ghost and he smiled.

“You get used to the dark, I promise,” he said kindly, thrusting out his hand, “I’m Tavel, son of Runo.”

“I’m Ivo,” the blond eagerly grasped his hand, shivering at the tight grip of the boy’s fingers, “son of Yankovi.”

Tavel grinned at him, “You from Grudorin?”

“Aye,” Ivo felt himself getting more and more relaxed – he was among his people now, safe.

Tavel looked expectantly at Tomoya, “And you are?” he asked, hand outstretched. For some reason Tomoya contemplated not shaking it, but did so anyway, squeezing Tavel’s fingers almost painfully.

“Tomoya Itoe,” he said grumpily, irritated by Ivo’s high spirits.

“You’re not from around here, eh?” Tavel was smiling brightly, unbothered by Tomoya’s tight grip, “You Mairi?”

“Yes,” Tomoya gritted.

“Aye you both seem like strong boys; good riddance too, the last mates were old and sickly, and we could use some hands up on deck,” Tavel started walking and Ivo scurried after him, with Tomoya bringing up the rear.

Ropes and barrels and chests rose on either side of them, shoved together haphazardly. Tomoya’s eyes picked out cannonballs and cannons too, which made him frown as Ivo innocently chatted away with his new friend.

“These chests contain our food, and these have the iron we’re transporting...,” Tomoya didn’t pay attention to what Tavel was saying.

Then, out of nowhere, hammocks appeared, suspended from the ceiling.

“Careful now,” Tavel stuck his arm out to prevent Ivo from walking too forward. The blond blinked, surprised, and then looked down. His stomach flipped, because right in front of him the floor gave way in a steep, slide-like incline. Metal bars criss-crossed over the gaping hole, but they were wide enough that a few more steps and Ivo would have fallen through.

“What is that?” he asked.

Tavel shrugged, “Prison cell, extra storage. Sometimes we transport wild animals,” he saw Ivo’s terrified expression and laughed, “Don’t worry, there’s nothing down there right now.” He pointed at the chaotic pattern of hammocks hanging over the hole at different levels, “these two,” he pointed to a pair nearby, one below the other, “are yours.”

Someone in one of the hammocks flipped over, an arm flopping out, and Ivo yelped. Again, Tavel laughed.

“Don’t fret,” he patted Ivo on the shoulder in a friendly manner. It made the boy’s body feel warm, and Tomoya grinded his teeth together. For some reason he hated how well Ivo fitted in on this ship, and he felt terribly alone with his marriage dilemma. For the first time since the Sand Pirates, his problems were his alone, “That’s just Daram, he likes to take naps.”

“Right,” Ivo laughed in relief. The darkness and chill of the lower deck, paired with the ominous dark hole, had put him on edge.

The background noise of the upper deck was sudden interrupted by a burst of loud shouting; the three men below deck craned their necks up to look at the dark ceiling. From what Ivo could tell one of the voices was female, and the other was Jaro, but they were too muffled for him to comprehend what they were arguing about.

“Ah,” Tavel smiled, unbothered, “That’s Stefla back now.”

“Stefla?” Ivo asked.

“The Captain’s daughter,” Tavel turned to Tomoya, “your fiancée, I hear.”

Ivo noted the colour draining from Tomoya’s sun-burnt face, “Yes,” the man replied tightly.

“Well, let me introduce you,” something sparkled in Tavel’s eye, like amusement or excitement at what would unfold. Ivo found it charming, Tomoya found it infuriating. The ex-Guardian turned his back to the two Dukkosh and stalked back towards the ladder, climbing on-deck. It was even more chaotic than before, with sailors running around, shouting orders and pulling at ropes and clearly preparing to pull out of the Harbour. The little girl had disappeared from the mast.

Tomoya squinted as he climbed up, shielding his eyes from the offending sun. Everything was bright and painful after the darkness of below-deck and the Mairi knew it would take him a while to get used to the sudden changes in lighting. When his eyes stopped dancing with white spots they landed on Jaro and Stefla.

The Captain’s demeanour had changed; his bushy eyebrows were like two frowns, and his eyes were soft and tired as he pleaded with his daughter, wrinkled hands outstretched. His pipe was nowhere to be seen and he no longer looked like a mysterious sailor, rather a worried father.

From him, his daughter inherited only the wildness of her hair, which was a light brown colour, like the bark of a tree, and fell around her heart-shaped face in a tangle of curls, and the piercing confidence of her eyes. Her dainty nose, delicate hands, creamy and flawless skin and smooth, thin eyebrows made her appear as a beautiful fairytale princess of a forest sprite. However, the way she was shouting obscenities at her father, and the foulness of her tongue that would put the greatest brute to shame, suggested that she was no princess.

 _That is my future wife._ Tomoya’s heart skipped a beat as he stared at her. He was afraid that she would remind him of Hiroa, and bring on painful memories, but nothing in this young, spirited girl was even reminiscent of Hiroa’s calm confidence.

“You’re being obvious,” Ivo scoffed from Tomoya’s side, and the ex-Guardian dragged his eyes away from the girl to look at the Dukkosh next to him – Ivo appeared irritated, but perhaps that was because Tavel had disappeared. “You’re looking at her as if she is Eriona herself.”

“Who the hell is Eriona?”

Before Ivo could answer, Jaro spotted them, “Tomoya!” he exclaimed, and waved the Mairi over. Stefla looked at him, and glared, “Why don’t you meet my lovely daughter, Ste- _Steffie!”_ the man shouted, hurt as his daughter started stalking towards the door at the side of the tree-mast that Jaro had come out off earlier, “Steffie come back!”

“ _Fuck off!”_ the girl screamed, voice carried by the sea breeze, and dramatically slammed the door behind herself.

The deck seemed awfully quiet for a moment, even though the rest of the sailors paid Stefla’s tantrum no attention. Slowly, _Sava_ pulled out of the Harbour, carried by the waves. Ivo’s stomach flipped; _this is it, we’re going._ He gazed at the Harbour desperately, heart pounding, knowing he’d never see it again.

“Apologies,” Jaro surprised the boys by directing his words towards them. He rubbed the space between his brows and Tomoya wondered how he had ever been scared of this man, “She is a bit...fiery. She’ll come around.”

“Right,” Tomoya said awkwardly, “Is there...anything you’d like us to do?” he asked. Ivo dodged a young boy who looked around thirteen summers old as he sprinted across the deck with a coil of rope over his skinny shoulder, sunshine gleaming off his hair. He didn’t even seem to see the other Dukkosh and Ivo had to stop himself from shouting obscenities after him.

“No, no,” Jaro waved the men off and pulled his pipe out of the pocket of his dark, too-warm jacket, relaxing visibly once smoke began to tumble from his cracked lips, “You can begin your duties on the morrow. For now rest, familiarise yourself with _Sava,_ try not to get in the way. At sundown I’d like you, Tomoya, to join us for dinner.”

Ivo gritted his teeth. _He_ was the Dukkosh here, so why was he being treated like an outsider? Tomoya must’ve thought the same because his eyes slid to the blond on their own accord. Jaro’s eyes followed.

“Ah, your little friend can join too, of course.”

“My name is Ivo,” the blond gritted. Jaro outwardly ignored him and climbed up the stairs where on a rise Basil was at the steering wheel, pulling _Sava_ out of the bay and out to open sea.

Tomoya and Ivo looked at each other, and the air between them sparkled with tension.

“I’m going to get some rest,” Tomoya could stand the coldness between the two of them; it was like they were strangers... _I suppose we are, after all._

Ivo watched him disappear below deck without a word; truthfully he had wanted to sleep too, or better yet, chase release in the dark, but now he couldn’t. He looked around the ship in hopes of spotting Tavel, but the man was nowhere to be seen.

Ivo felt horribly and bitterly alone, as if Tomoya had betrayed him even though it had been Ivo who pushed him to accept Jaro’s deal.

Afraid of tripping over or angering someone, the boy quickly found his way to the prow of the ship and, observing how calm the sea was as the day dragged into early afternoon, he climbed onto the statue of the woman at the head of _Sava._ With the wooden flowers in her hair, she was undoubtedly meant to resemble Eriona, mother earth herself and the goddess that the Dukkosh worshipped. Ivo sat at the top and held on to the flowers, enjoying the sea spray hitting his face. For the first time in months he was free of the stiff heat of the Empire, and instead surrounded by a cool sea breeze as _Sava_ entered open waters. The sea stretched out in front of him, silver and endless, and Ivo smiled. Regardless of his loneliness, regardless of Tomoya, he was going home and soon enough he would see his family again.

Maybe this was for the better. Like this, if Tomoya stayed with Stefla, Ivo would never have to confess that he lied about his father being able to gift Tomoya a cottage. Like this, Ivo could return home and everything would return to normal and the crazy, intense adventures he experienced with Tomoya in the Empire would be just stories he could tell the village children.

“This is a horrible spot for looking at the sea,” a voice piped up, sudden and loud and close to Ivo’s ear. The blond yelped and wobbled dangerously, and suddenly the water seemed way too close. The only thing that prevented him from falling in was a skinny arm that reached out and grabbed him by the cuff of his shirt.

When Ivo realised that death wasn’t imminent, he turned carefully and saw the little blonde girl that had been getting shouted at by Basil earlier. She looked as bored and unimpressed as earlier, but her thin arm held firmly onto Ivo despite the fact that she was only a child. There was something angelic in her appearance; her blonde wavy hair, her pale skin seemingly untouched by the sun save for two ruddy cheeks, and the pale, blue oversized shirt that someone had given her and that she wore as a dress. Her feet were bare, and her hands were calloused.

“Y-Yeah,” Ivo managed through his panic, “You’ve got a better one?”

The child nodded and slid off the statue of Eriona, and shakily Ivo followed her down, cursing himself for recklessly sitting on the prow, where any strong gust of wind or a bumpy wave could send him overboard.

The little girl walked across the deck like a ghost, avoiding poles and big, bawdy sailors, untouched by anything going on around her. Ivo followed her clumsily, bumping into ropes stretched from the mast and over uneven floorboards. Once they reached the mast, the little girl used the ropes to pull herself up with comfortable grace that came from years of practice. Ivo copied her movements in silence, placing his feet in the ridges of the mast where she had, and somehow managing to keep up. Ropes gave way to the tree branches that held up the sails, and as they went higher and higher, Ivo’s arms began to tremble with exertion and he made the mistake of looking down.

His stomach flipped as he saw the ship below him, the sailors milling around just unrecognizable blobs. He hadn’t realised how fast and high he had climbed. The wind was stronger up here, tugging on his hair. He was so high up that if he let go, he’d go tumbling and crashing and be dead when he hit the deck.

“Don’t look down!” the little girl informed him, forcing Ivo to look back up again.

She was sitting in the crow’s next just a few feet above Ivo’s head, peering over the side. Around him, the yellow sails billowed, blocking the view of the sea around him and making him feel weirdly safe, like he was wrapped in somebody’s arms. He climbed up, more confident, and slid into the nest next to the little girl. It was truly a nest, made of branches and twigs, and inside it the little girl had pebbles and marbles and crudely made toys.

“Here,” she looked at Ivo with big, serious blue eyes and pointed out over the edge of the nest, “You can see better from here.”

Ivo stood and looked out and choked on a breath. The little girl was right. Here he could see _everything._ The sea was never-ending, stretching as far as Ivo’s eyes could reach, melting with the brilliant blue sky on the horizon. When Ivo turned, mesmerised, he saw Cheri and the harbour behind them, slipping further and further away from them with every blink. Suddenly the boy felt insignificant and small, but not in a bad way – his worries disappeared when he noted how trivial they were, and for a moment he was overwhelmed by the sheer grandness of it all.

He sat back down next to the girl, who had produced a peach from the folds of her dress and was biting it. She offered it to Ivo and he smiled and took a bite. The sweet juice dripped down his chin and bizarrely he was reminded of the old woman in the doorway of the Public House in Shariba, who had shared her tangerine with him. He smiled at the fond memory.

“I’m Ivo,” he told the little girl, handing her fruit back to her. He had never liked children, but he decided he liked her. He also decided he wanted to bring Tomoya up here and show him the view, though he doubted there was enough space in the nest for both of them, “I’m from Grudorin.”

“I’m Pola. I’m from here.” The girl replied after a moment of thought.

“From the ship?”

 “Yes.”

“Do you not live in a village?” Ivo asked, puzzled. Pola shook her head.

“No,” she said as she finished her apple, “This is my home.”

Ivo watched as she stood up and leaned over the side of the nest, before reaching her arm back and throwing the pit of the fruit as far as she could. It sank below the waves silently.

Pola smiled for the first time since Ivo met her, “Now a peach tree will grow there.”

 Ivo shoved food in his mouth as a distraction from the tension in the room, and because he knew it would be a while before he got to eat something other than biscuits and pickled eggs – the chances of him being invited into the Captain’s quarters and dining on exotic fish and fruit again were incredibly slim so he decided to make the most of it.

He and Tomoya were in the Captain’s cabin, a large oval room located in the trunk of the tree-mast; it had no windows and so it almost seemed as if they were not on a ship at all. Two staircases led up the branches, one to the Captain’s quarters, and one to his daughter’s, but right now the four of them were down in the ‘dining room’ where a huge table was loaded with food taken from Cheri’s harbour. The wooden walls were decorated with old maps that were burnt and curling at the sides, and skeletons of bizarre creatures were fastened to the walls. This contrasted the dried herbs and flowers that flowed down in garlands from the ceiling, making the room seem like a cross between a witch’s lair and a pirate ship. Though looking at Jaro, who was happily slicing the skin off an apple in his huge hat, and his daughter who sat across from him, fuming and furious with her wild hair, that wasn’t so hard to fathom. Honestly, Tomoya was impressed that Jaro had even managed to get his fiancée to sit at the same table as him.

“We don’t normally eat this well,” Jaro explained in a surprisingly cheerful tone, puffing away at his pipe as he cut his apple, “but we have just stocked up so enjoy while it lasts. Aye, we might be eating rats by the end of the voyage!” he guffawed.

“It only takes ten days to get to Grudorin,” Tomoya interjected quietly. Normally he would be shovelling food into his mouth, especially after the last few weeks, but right now he could barely stomach air, avoiding the lightning-charged gaze of Stefla as she glared at him.

“See!” Jaro boasted, looking at his unimpressed daughter but pointing at the Mairi with his apple knife, “an intelligent man! A catch! A real catch, Steffie! He can tell you all about the world!”

“I don’t want him to tell me about the world,” Stefla snapped, “I want to _see_ the world.”

“But _darling,”_ Jaro dramatically released his apple and knife and turned to his daughter pleadingly, grabbing her hand, “You have! You’ve seen plenty of the world-“

“No I haven’t,” Stefla snapped, snatching her hand away, “I want to see the North Islands, and the Tekoshi Wall, and all the islands not yet discovered.”

Jaro perked up, “Tomoya will show you the Tekoshi Wall, won’t ya boy?”

Tomoya paled, “Uh...”

Ivo snorted and continued to eat as the ex-Guardian glared at him out of the corner of his eye. At least one of them was entertained.

“I will show _myself_ the world, papa,” Stefla angrily threw her fork down, “Why can’t you respect my decision?!”

“Firecracker,” Jaro sighed, “I am just worried about you. Your papa won’t be here forever.”

Tomoya watched the interaction, wondering how Jaro could go from a terrifying, mysterious Captain to a loving, emotional father in the space of a second. Stefla looked at him, and Tomoya quickly looked down.

“I don’t even know him, papa!” she complained as if Tomoya wasn’t even there. Ivo continued to shove his food in his mouth, “and I _don’t_ want to marry! When will you stop trying to force suitors on me!”

“Maybe you’ll fall in love...,” Jaro suggested gently.

“We won’t,” Stefla snapped and stood up, “if you want a wedding marry the two of them!” she gestured at Ivo and Tomoya, and Ivo started choking on a piece of potato.

“Shut up,” Tomoya hissed at him. As reluctant as he was to marry Stefla, he was sure Jaro would throw them overboard the moment he didn’t see them as important anymore. The ex-Guardian stood too, “Miss Stefla, please,” he said, finally meeting the girl’s piercing gaze. She reminded him of a bull, ready to charge and impale him on her horns. He swallowed, “I know we do not know each other but perhaps spending some time alone would help us to see if we are compatible.”

Ivo put his fork down, swallowing the bite he had in his mouth with trouble.

Stefla snorted, “You’re so soft spoken and polite,” she grumbled, “we could never work.”

“Trust me,” Ivo piped up, “he’s anything but polite.”

Stefla looked at him, then her mouth twitched into a smile, “I like this one.”

“You’ll marry him?” Jaro asked hopefully.

“No,” Stefla deadpanned, “I’d rather marry an octopus and live at the bottom of the sea forever.”

“Thanks,” Ivo said sarcastically.

“Just give up, papa,” Stefla said tiredly. Jaro slumped in his seat and re-lit his pipe, exhaling a big cloud of smoke.

“I just want you to be safe, my firecracker,” he said sadly, “Safe and happy when I’m gone.”

The girl danced towards him, suddenly full of grace and a lovely smile. She took her father’s big, bulky hand in her dainty one, “Don’t worry, papa, you’re not dead yet.” She plucked the pipe from his mouth and took a puff.

“Stefla!” Jaro bellowed, outraged. She grinned and gave it back to him.

“Will you let the matter be?” she asked.

“Fine,” he grumbled, “For now. But know you are breaking papa’s heart.”

“Papa’s heart will be fine,” Stefla smiled. She turned to look at Ivo and Tomoya, who were watching the exchange in confusion, “As for you two, don’t fret. We will take you to Grudorin as promised.”

“No we won’t,” Jaro mumbled. Stefla looked at him pointedly.

“Yes we will, papa.”

“Well this was lovely and all,” Ivo stood before Jaro could change his mouth, hurriedly shoving grapes into his mouth, “but I think I’ll take my leave now.”

“Me too,” Tomoya agreed, hurriedly getting up too. He bowed awkwardly to the Captain and his daughter, “I apologise for not being suitable...”

“Oh not at all,” Stefla laughed, “You’re welcome in my bed any time, Mairi.”

“Don’t you dare, boy,” Jaro threatened.

Tomoya was relieved when he went out onto the deck and got a mouthful of fresh, salty, cold air. Night had fallen and the moon reflected off the waves. _Sava_ was just a speck on the ocean, its flickering lanterns the only indication that it even existed. Most of the crew were below-deck, asleep, save for some men sauntering around like ghosts, doing the loud work of the day in the silence of the night.

Tomoya sighed and looked up at the sky. It was littered with stars, like an onyx blanket full of holes. The last time the stars had been so bright was when he and Ivo were in the Dalahari desert. Tomoya didn’t know what to feel about the newest revelation – relieved, disappointed? He had been growing comfortable with the thought of having a partner and now...

“Guess you’re sleeping in a hammock after all,” Ivo said teasingly. Tomoya looked down at him, having forgotten for a moment that the Dukkosh was there. Moonlight turned his pale hair silver. His presence was comforting, and settled Tomoya’s heart.

“Ivo.”

“What?” the Dukkosh asked, confused by the sudden fond look in Tomoya’s eyes.

“Let’s not fight anymore, alright?”

Ivo shrugged, “Alright. I suppose this all means our plan is still on?”

Tomoya nodded, and Ivo bit his lip. Was now a good time to confess to Tomoya that he had lied, and that there wouldn’t be a place for him in Ivo’s village? Or maybe there would be...the Dukkosh didn’t like strangers, but if Ivo explained that Tomoya saved him, perhaps he would be welcomed with open arms...

“Also,” Tomoya shoved his hands into the pockets of the long, second-hand navy jacket he had been given by one of the crew-members to fight off the chill coming from the sea, “I don’t think you’re disgusting or anything like that,” he mumbled.

Ivo’s heart jumped in his chest.

“Gee,” he grinned, “Thanks, now I can finally sleep at night.”

Tomoya punched his arm playfully and together they went below-deck. Neither of them admitted that they were unsettled by the open chasm beneath the hammocks, but the snorting of the other sailors calmed them down and suggested a kind of normalcy. Everything smelled damp and fishy.

Tomoya subconsciously waited beneath Ivo’s hammock, tense as the boy climbed in, ready to catch him if he was to slip. But he didn’t, and his hammock moulded to his shape as he laid down in it.

Carefully balancing on the iron bars and gripping ropes for support, Tomoya got into his own hammock, directly beneath Ivo’s. It was comforting to have him so close, and when Tomoya looked up he could make out the boy’s outline in the dark. He reached his hand up to touch him, forgetting the chasm beneath him.

 _What am I doing?_ Tomoya’s fingers froze inches from Ivo’s hammock and he quickly dropped it, heart pounding.

**The following morning, beyond the seas, late autumn.**

**Sere’s Bay, close to Encaster.**

**The North Islands.**

****

It wasn’t the cold sea-spray that woke Roan up from where he was curled up at the back of the ship alongside half of the raiders, snoring beneath a sheep-skin. It wasn’t the howling wind, or the sound of oars hitting the water as Beorthion bellowed _heave, heave, heave._ It wasn’t the sun rising into the grey sky, or the stench of his neighbour’s armpit as he slept sprawled by Roan’s side. It was the sound of seagulls.

Roan sat up, rubbing a huge hand down his face. The ship swayed beneath him and he glanced around; not much had changed since he had gone to sleep a few hours before – the sky had lightened but remained as grey and depressing as it had back home, from where the raiders had set off two days ago. Winter was fast-approaching and Roan knew the sun wouldn’t return to the North Islands, or even to Beauralt, for long months – soon the Dreiyards would end their raids and retire home to drink and feast throughout the cold winter, but first they had to take as much from the Beaus as possible; except they couldn’t do that, because of the fucking Odelians.

Roan stood up and stretched his arms over his head, feeling rested. He had gone raiding many times a month since he was ten and sleeping in his boots and on the hard wooden floor of one of their one-deck ships wasn’t an issue for him. Not many things were issues for Roan.

He joined his father at the prow of the ship, where Beorthion stared into the foggy air, sea-spray in his greying blond beard.

“Morn, father,” Roan bellowed cheerfully, slapping his father’s broad shoulder.

“Good morn, son,” Beorthion replied, squinting at the fog, “Heard news of Voubren ships in these waters, can never be too careful and those fuckers have big fucking ships. Would be a shame if we lost _Bertha_ because some Voubren prick didn’t know how to sail properly.”

Roan smirked, “Aye,” he replied, and looked up at the sky after hearing a distinct screech. Sure enough malnourished seagulls circled overhead, squawking at each other and eying up _Bertha,_ “Birds up in the sky,” the man remarked, “we’re getting close.”

“Aye,” Beorthion spat into the grey waters that _Bertha_ was cutting through, the half of the Dreiyard crew that wasn’t asleep was sweating in the cold morning air, moving the oars so that the ship never ceased on its voyage. It was a small ship, narrow and perfect for speed and stealth, which was what the Dreiyards needed right now.

Feona stepped up onto the prow, balancing on the edge with her boots sticking over the side. She gripped an overhead rope with one hand, unimpressed by the waves spraying at her, and unafraid of falling in, half of her ashy locks braided.

“I see the big oaf decided to get up,” she eyed her brother up. Roan went to pretend to push her into the water, but Feona was faster, kicking him in the gut and making him stumble backwards, then laughing maniacally at his expression.

“Children,” Beorthion chided, “stop behaving like...,” he thought for a moment, “children.”

Feona snickered.

“Fucking bitch,” Roan grumbled under his breath, feeling as if he were young again, getting picked on by his sister, “I wish Wynna was here instead of you.”

“Wynna wouldn’t last a moment at a raid,” Feona snickered.

“Any sign of the Voubren?” Beorthion directed the question at his daughter, who shook her head, pushing hair out of her face as wind billowed through the ship, the steady _heave, heave_ echoing through the mist.

“No,” Feona replied, mildly irritated. She unstrapped her axe from her back and sat on the prow, pulling out a small knife and beginning to sharpen the blade, “I told you, they’re in the Wind Straits, they have no business going this far North.”

“Hmmm,” Beorthion rubbed his beard, “You’re right, they want Wildeshell. Thank Sere and her goodness, because dealing with them _and_ those fucking Odelians would have been a feat.”

“We could do it!” Roan boasted.

“Shut up Roan.”

“Shut _up,_ Feona.”

“ _Children.”_

Roan glared at his sister; she was especially irritating in the mornings, “I don’t understand what the Voubren want in Wildeshell,” he crossed his arms over his chest, muscles flexing, “There’s nothing there but grey beaches and shitty little towns.”

“It’s not _what,”_ Feona smirked, “It’s _who._ Don’t you listen to the scouts? Apparently the King of Voubrenia has fallen madly in love with the Lord Protector.”

“I don’t pay attention to gossip,” Roan huffed.

“You don’t pay attention to anything except feasting, whores, fighting and that little redhead Druid-“

“Here, here,” Beorthion turned from the prow and slapped his son’s back, “Wake the men, we have arrived.”

And sure enough within seconds the dark outline of the coast could be seen on the horizon. How Beorthion could always sense where their target was baffled Roan, and his father never betrayed how he knew. Still, the familiar coast of Encaster came into view, foggy and dark green. Encaster was sometimes referred to as the Southern Stronghold, for it was the southern-most part of the Hangulla, a Dreiyard settlement that neighboured with Beavnird. It was here that the Dreiyards of Cervantes had been summoned, not to raid, but to aid their blood-kin for the Odelians, whom had been attacking the North Islands viciously all through the summer and autumn, had laid siege. Seeing the tall pine trees emerge from the milky air like ghosts sent a shiver of anticipation up Roan’s spine, and he could almost taste the blood of his enemies on his tongue.

He walked eagerly to the back of the ship, where he woke his best friend Lug with a loving kick to his back.

“What?!” Lug demanded, jerking upwards and reaching for his axe. Roan chuckled.

“Come on,” he said, and then shouted louder, waking the other sleeping raiders, “It’s time to kill some Odelian cunts!”

 _Bertha_ landed on the rocky shore just as the sun began to climb up, shielded from view by thin grey clouds that covered the whole sky like a protective blanket. The Dreiyards were master raiders and everybody on-board knew exactly what to do to conceal their position and sneak onto the island without being spotted.

The crew disembarked, passing down weapons in an eerie silence. From behind the thick tree-line of the coast, they could see smoke curling into the sky, a darker shade of grey than the clouds. Beorthion was familiar with all of the North Islands well, and knew there was no village so close to the shore. The closest one was Alxbir, a good hour’s walk away, but the smoke was close-by – it meant one thing. The Odelians had begun raiding the North Islands in the summer, as a sudden and violent retaliation for the raiding that happened in Veoviel. Only recently had the Odelians’ ship-building become advanced enough to pose a threat to the Dreiyards, and they had done their best to catch up with the years of raids by Dreiyards, destroying villages, stealing supplies and massacring the people. But they weren’t as practiced in the art as the north-men, not as brave or stealthy, and made foolish mistakes. This was one of them; they might have hidden their ships from view, but by building fires they had betrayed their position. Now Roan couldn’t wait to rip their guts from their stomachs.

“Warriors,” Beorthion barked as the two dozen of his crew gathered around him, “You know what to do – everyone but Ulf and Bera in with me, kill as many as you can. You two,” he pointed at Ulf and Bera, a pair of siblings, still in their adolescence, “man the ship, be ready to sail if things are to go badly.”

“They won’t,” Roan grinned. Beorthion nodded curtly.

“Now,” he pulled out a chunky sword, “let’s go murder some scum.”

Adrenaline spiked in Roan’s blood as the warriors delved into the forest. The man pulled his huge axe from where it was strapped at his back and felt comforted by its familiar weight in his hand. It was a beautiful weapon, made for him by his father for his fourteenth birthday. Its handle was long and wooden, and in it were carved ancient runes for prowess in battle and victory. The blade was steel and double-edged, curved and huge, also covered in intricate designs. The axe’s name was Morga, and Roan had killed countless people with her help.

Lug fell in on his left as Feona and Beorthion forged ahead. The brunet yawned, “Why must we always volunteer for raids?” he asked dully, “It’d be nice to just sit in the village and laze about for once.”

Roan gave him a look, “This isn’t a raid,” he smirked, holding up his axe, “This is an avenging mission. Besides, since when do you dislike kicking some Odelian arse, huh?”

Lug shrugged, “I like it, but we do it _constantly._ If it’s not Odelians, then it’s Beaus...”

“We have a lot of enemies,” Roan replied nonchalantly as the Dreiyards crept through the shrubs, “It’s what happens when you raid people all the time and take their shit.”

“I’m thirsty,” Lug complained quietly.

“You drink too much.”

“And you kill too much,” the brunet grumbled back, “Wouldn’t you rather be cosy with a warm body right now?”

A freckly, irritated pale face flashed in Roan’s mind and he stumbled over a root.

“Oi,” Feona whirled around and glared at her brother, “We’re getting close, be fucking careful or you’ll give away our position!”

Roan focused at the task at hand. The trees began to thin out, revealing a clearing in which several Odelian tents had been pitched. The sound of their conversations and the snorting of horses drifted through the leaves, and the smell of fire filled Roan’s nostrils. His mouth began to water for blood.

The Dreiyards squatted low in the shrubs, surveying their enemies. There were four Odelian tents, and at least thirty men milling around, Feona estimated. Neither Lug nor Roan could count, but they both knew they could easily take the Odelians. Some of them were huddling by fires, others shivering under furs; they were neither used to the cold weather, nor prepared for an attack so early in the morning. The Dreiyards were known for nightly raids, but they were also known for being unpredictable.

The Sixth Raiding Brigade was getting ready to take down camp and pack up their ship; they had tired of the cold and dreary weather of the North Islands and had burned enough villages to successfully threaten the Dreiyards – now they were ready to retire home for the winter and drown themselves in wine.

“Come on now, men!” Sebastus Alviera, the commander of the brigade bellowed, voice echoing through the trees. His men were sluggish in the cold of the morning, trembling, and he was irritated. He wanted nothing more than to return home and feel his wife’s soft breasts in his hands once more, “the faster you load, the faster we get out of this cold hell!”

His voice was rough, his eyes dark and surrounded by wrinkles. With the plume of red feathers on his golden helmet he stood out in the grey clearing, and made for an easy target. The Sixth Raiding Brigade had been lulled into lethargy, and now they were trapped – they simply didn’t know it yet.

“Get him first,” Roan whispered, pointing his axe at Sebastus. He wanted him, he wanted to be the one to take down the commander.

“Scout for archers first,” Feona hissed, and Beorthion nodded silently, happy to allow his children to take charge of the operation. Roan glared at his sister as she turned to the other squatting Dreiyards and motioned at the trees before selecting four of them for scouts. They broke away from the rest of the group and silently slid into the bushes. The others waited, eyes trained on the brigade.

“Commander,” Tulian Derianus, the second-in-command, approached his leader, his own helmet held beneath a muscular arm. His dark brows were furrowed and his goatee gave him a sour look, “Perhaps it is smart to check the bay before we leave, in case of Dreiyards.”

“Nonsense,” Sebastus could only think of his wife’s breasts, “if those filthy Northmen were coming we would have seen them by now...and smelt them.”

The men closest to him exploded into laughter, and Roan’s hand tightened on the shaft of his axe – the insolence enraged him. His father clasped his shoulder, reminding his son to keep calm. Roan could get a little hot-headed at times.

“Commander,” Tulian wasn’t convinced, eyes scanning the tree-line but failing to spot the Dreiyards sliding through the underbrush like worms.

“Come on now, friend,” Sebastus grinned at Tulian, “We have done our job and our duty! No need for your anxiety now, we’ll be home soon,” he patted him on the back and then continued to shout orders to the sleepy Odelians, who were packing away weapons into chests – the same weapons they used to slaughter the Dreiyard villagers.

Rubeus Issos, the youngest member of the brigade at only fifteen springs old, dumped his sword into a chest. He had tried to scrub the blood from the blade but it was useless and as he wandered towards the tree-line for a piss he wondered if he had enough money saved up from being with the brigade to buy himself a new one when they returned home.

He sniffled as he felt his nose run in the cold weather, and started unlacing his breeches. He looked into the shrubbery, and his eyes met the big, green ones of a man perched motionlessly among the bushes.

Rubeus’ eyes widened, “Fu-“

He did a half turn but never finished the word as the Dreiyard sprung from the floor and threw his axe at his back. The boy crashed to the floor, dead in seconds, and havoc erupted in the camp.

“ _Shit,”_ Roan swore, on his feet in seconds. The Dreiyards abandoned their mission of stealth and rushed the camp, relying on their sheer size and power.

“Northmen!” Tulian bellowed as his men scrambled for the weapons that they had dumped into the chests, “Northmen!”

He pulled his double-edged sword from his sheath, but Beorthion was on him in moments. The huge chieftain wielded his own sword and with a roar that was more akin to an animal’s than a human’s, began to duel the second in command. Their weapons slammed against each other, and although Beorthion was bigger than Tulian, the latter was a skilled swordsman, parrying the Chief’s violent attack – it took a few moments before Beorthion crushed him.

Meanwhile Feona danced through the camp. She backed one of the men against a tree, where he tripped over the roots and fell. Although he had a dagger in his hand, he didn’t even attempt to defend himself against Feona, perhaps because she was a woman.

“ _M-Mercy_ -,” he sputtered in Odelian as she towered over him with a smirk, spurned on by the sound of battle behind her like a true Northman.

“Shut your mouth, dog,” she spat, and sliced her axe down. It split the man’s skull and he didn’t live to speak another word as blood poured down his face and his eyes glazed over. With a sickening crunch, Feona pulled her weapon free and whirled around to look at the camp where Odelians were scattered and panicking, and the Northmen were picking them off. She laughed and threw herself into the heart of the chaos.

The number of Odelians was dwindling rapidly. The Commander laid dead, sprawled on the floor, and nobody was quite sure who had killed him. Lug cut down a man who was desperately trying to open the chest full of weapons, while Roan hunted down a big, bulky Odelian whom he deemed worthy of an opponent.

The son of the Chief wanted to say that he was spurred on by the thought of the dead villagers in the Dreiyard villages, but that would’ve been a lie – it was the smell of blood in the air, the sheer power he had over these men, that made it all worthwhile. Violence run in his veins. While he wielded his axe, Roan was undefeated, a God of sorts from whom men run and of whom they were afraid.

The last of the Odelians fell with a scream and silence descended onto the clearing. Rain drizzled from the grey sky and for a moment it was just the Dreiyards breathing hard and looking at the corpses.

Roan’s hand was still wrapped around shaft of his axe which was embedded in the chest of the Odelian whom he had killed – a man whose name he didn’t know, and would never learn. A peculiar feeling descended on him in that moment, and he tasted a bitterness in his mouth, and felt almost...regretful. The man was covered in blood, face twisted in a now-silent scream as his intestines spilled onto the red grass. Yes, these men had slaughtered innocents, but...Roan thought of what Callian would think if he saw this carnage. Would he be proud? No...Roan could see the Druid’s face in his mind, his nose wrinkled, eyes full of disgust. He would think Roan a monster and an animal if he saw him like this.

 A deafening roar filled the clearing as the Dreiyards celebrated their victory, wildly screaming into the sky. And just like that, Roan’s remorse was gone. He ripped his weapon free and grinned, screaming at the steely sky, his victim already forgotten.

The raiding party spent the night onshore, dragging the bodies of the Odelians into the forest so they could become dinner for its inhabitants. They were all exhausted after the adrenaline left their bodies and didn’t want to embark on the long journey back home just yet. They hunted down a wild pig and roasted it over a huge fire, while drinking from flasks stored on the ships as they exchanged stories from their short-lived battle.

Roan had had his fair share of drink and when the moon hung swollen in the sky, he picked himself up from the party and stumbled away from the heat of the fire, into the darkness of the trees.

“Where are you going?!” Feona called after her brother as Lug continued his story animatedly.

“Piss,” the man called back, and loudly crashed through the trees. The truth was he wanted to be alone. He followed the sound of the waves breaking up onto the shore and came out onto the beach; he sat down onto the wet ground, ignoring the chilliness of the night air, and brought out his flask. The rain from earlier turned into sparse snow that didn’t set – winter was very near.

Roan drank alone, staring at the inky waves in front of him, and the moonlight dancing over their peaks, and his mind travelled where it normally did when he was alone; Callian.

Not for the first time, Roan imagined marrying him. If the warrior ever voiced his desire to his family he would be laughed at, but the thought of having Callian as his bride had plagued his dreams since he was a young boy. He imagined being lowered into the freezing water of the sea alongside the Druids, of the celebrations that would ensue. For once, Cal wouldn’t berate and belittle him, only gaze at Roan with love and kindness, and one of those beautiful smiles he reserved for his cats only.

Roan’s eyes glazed over as he looked into the distance, overwhelmed by emotion. He had always loved Cal, ever since he first noticed him being brought out of the sea by Maganna, all tiny and shivering. It baffled Roan how someone so small and fragile could be so powerful and so unafraid of everyone – Callian’s sharp tongue could have gotten him killed hundreds of times, and yet he didn’t care.

Roan wanted to know more about him, to see more sides of him; he wanted to see him laugh, and read, and sleep, and dance, wanted to see the carefree, passionate side he had glimpsed before, not just the cold, calculating, rude Druid that treated Roan like an enemy. He wanted to see Cal cry, and gasp in pleasure as Roan pinned him down to a bed, all flushed and beautiful and-

“Fuck,” Roan looked up at the stars and calmed himself, taking a swig from his flask and feeling the mead slide down his throat.

He wanted to marry Cal; he didn’t want anybody else, no woman or man in the village or beyond it. If he could have Callian, completely and wholly, he would be perfectly satisfied and could die happy.

The man fantasised about how he’d come home from this raid and climb into bed with the man he loved, and Cal wouldn’t scorn him or shout at him, but wake up quietly and take Roan’s face in his cold, freckled hands, and kiss him and smile, and sleepily ask him how he did, and he’d tell Roan he was proud of him. The thought of it made Roan’s heart ache.

Depressed by his thoughts and beginning to doubt if Cal would ever forgive him for that stupid remark the warrior made years ago, Roan picked himself up and stumbled back to the raiding party, who welcomed him with a cheer when he re-appeared.

“Where were you son?” Beorthion asked, bits of pig fat in his grey and blond beard.

“Got lost,” Roan mumbled, collapsing next to Lug. His best friend held up his flask as the rest of the party talked among themselves, shouting over each other and arguing about something or other.

“You alright, friend?” Lug asked, cheeks ruddy from the drink, words slurred.

“Yes,” Roan replied, staring at the flames before taking a thoughtful drink, “The fire is orange, just like his hair. Every time I’m apart from him, I yearn for his presence,” the man confessed, the way he had a thousand times before. Lug snorted.

“You and that Druid,” he shook his head, looking up at Roan, “When are you going to move on? There are plenty of beautiful people in the village who want you back, like Aruna,” he nudged Roan playfully.

The warrior shrugged off his arm, “Cal wants me back,” he said confidently, “and I don’t want Aruna.”

Lug rolled his eyes, tired of hearing the same shit over and over, “Why though?” he groaned, “this is getting ridiculous, Roan. All you ever talk about is him. What’s so good about him anyway? He looks like a carrot, and he’s not even from our village-“

Roan snapped his head to look at his friend, glaring at him so heatedly that Lug immediately shut up.

“Callian is the most beautiful creature in the world,” Roan growled, low enough so only Lug heard, “I told you to not speak like that about him. Cal is a gorgeous forest nymph, and he is more intelligent than all of us united, and he is kind – maybe not to me, but to others,” as he spoke, Roan’s voice grew softer and fonder and the anger faded from his eyes, “he is perfect in every way and I adore him, and-“

“Alright, alright,” Lug said grumpily, taking a drink from his flask, “if you love him so much just marry him already.” It was a joke, but it made Roan’s heart pound.

**The following evening, not so far away.**

**Castle Darmont, Crasbury, Wildeshell.**

**Kingdom of Beauralt.**

****

The Lord Protector was escorted into the room by Voubren guards, this time fully dressed. It had been three days since the incident in the Concilliar room and Sef had hopelessly prayed that Lysander would somehow forgive his behaviour and come to reconcile with him. Naturally, that did not happen and after three days Sef lost patience.

Tonight, there was no banquet and the King opted to dine alone in the first dining room, perched miserably at the head of the long wooden table. The silence of the castle seemed deafening after over a week of endless celebration. Sef had declined the proposition of many Beau lords and ladies to take dinner with them, and infuriated his sister by refusing her company. He had, however, extended an invitation to Lysander with no hope that the Lord would accept, and had begun to eat his meal in silence with only Heroti hovering in the corner of the hall like a shadow, ready to protect his King.

When Lysander walked into the room, head held high, Sef was so shocked he dropped his fork.

“M-My Lord,” he stood abruptly as Lysander came to stand at the opposite end of the table, where a plate had been loaded up for him with juicy meats and sweet bread now growing cold in the chill of the Castle, “I didn’t...,” Sef didn’t know what to say, staring. Lys looked very different from the last time the King had seen him – he was fully dressed in a dark blue doublet and white shirt beneath it, with a thick grey fur piled about his shoulders. His soft brown hair was brushed, and his steely eyes betrayed no emotion. He was, once again, the Lord Protector of Wildeshell and the trembling, blushing young man in his night garments was just a memory.

“King Sef,” Lysander said coolly, “Thank you for your invitation.”

He sat in the chair opposite Sef.

“Leave us,” the Voubren barked at the guards who had brought Lys in, “you too, Heroti.”

The three of them bowed, “I will be just outside, sire,” Heroti said, throwing Lysander a glance. When the trio exited, Sef sat back down in his chair again, hands trembling slightly. Now that Lysander was actually here Sef felt unprepared and anxious, scared to ruin things once more. He hadn’t expected Lys to actually come.

“Thankyou for joining me,” he managed, swallowing past his nerves. Lysander didn’t look at him, just picked up his knife and fork and began to eat. Sef’s own appetite evaporated, “I...,” he cleared his throat, “To what do I owe the honour?”

Lys chewed the food that tasted like ash in his mouth and swallowed it. It was some kind of rare meat that Sef must have brought from Voubrenia, and much fancier than anything ever served in Darmont, and Lys felt a little disappointed that he couldn’t enjoy it, but with Sef staring at him from across the table it was impossible.

“I have come to discuss some things.”

Sef perked up and the table between them seemed much too long all of a sudden, “Our marriage?”

“No,” Lysander said coldly, “Your plans. Are you going to destroy any more of my villages?”

The distaste in the Lord’s eyes made Sef slump in his seat, “Nay,” he said quietly, though his voice still seemed to echo around the grey dining room. It felt as if winter had arrived in the room, and no amount of lush Voubren tapestries on the walls could chase away the iciness of Lysander’s gaze. _He really hates me now,_ Sef thought bitterly, “and I would like to formerly apologise for doing so previously. I let my emotions get the best of me, and it won’t happen again.”

Lysander blinked, taken aback. He had not expected – nor wanted – an apology, and yet Sef appeared truly remorseful, staring at his plate, eyes downcast. Lys felt almost sorry for him. And then he remembered the man’s invasive hands, the ones that had appeared in his dreams every night for the past three days, leaving him waking up hard and ashamed, and he sat up straighter.

“Then how long do you plan to remain in Wildeshell? Surely you don’t expect King Ormond to allow this insolence forever.”

Sef smiled, a little of his confidence trickling back in, “Your old King has been surprisingly silent, my Lord, it is no secret that he does not care about Wildeshell.”

Lysander gritted his teeth, “Watch your tongue, sir.”

Sef ignored the remark for which he would have anybody else thrown to the lions, “I will remain in Wildeshell as long as it takes for you to accept my love,” he marvelled at the blush that rose to Lys’ pale cheeks, one he could not hide, “besides, if your King were to try and make me leave he would have to pull his troops out of the Shairin Empire, and we all know that won’t happen. I have the largest and most powerful army in the world, I would destroy Beauralt.”

Lys’ eyes narrowed, “It would be a shame if somebody slashed your throat in your sleep.”

The door to the dining room burst open and the Captain of the Guard exploded in, drawing his sword and followed by the other two guards, also wielding their weapons.

“ _Heroti_ ,” Sef snapped, irritated and rubbing the space between his brows, “He won’t kill me, get back outside, and for the love of the Gods, _stop eavesdropping.”_

Heroti openly glared at Lysander but sheathed his weapon, “Apologies, my King.”

The guards left Sef and Lys alone again.

“You’ve got balls to threaten me,” Sef was amused, and pointed his meat knife at Lysander, “I could have you executed in a heartbeat.”

“Do it, and spare me my misery,” Lysander spat.

“Misery,” Sef shook his head, a mischievous smile still playing on his lips. He felt that he was back in familiar waters, “You know, I don’t understand why you’re fighting me so hard on this. For what is it all? This?” he opened his arms and both of them looked up at the grey ceiling of the hall, “for shitty weather and stone houses and a King who doesn’t care? Tell me, my Lord,” he fixed his eyes on flustered Lysander, “how would you like golden sands, wealth and happiness instead? How would you like to be King of the most powerful nation in the world instead of desperately trying to keep the last frontier of Beauralt standing?”

“You are a fool if you think I care about power,” Lys said quietly. Sef’s smile melted away; he didn’t like the way Lys now seemed to fold in on himself, becoming smaller as he stared at his plate. Sef’s words had cut deep.

“In Voubrenia,” Sef said, much more gently, “You’d be accepted for who you are.”

Lys’ head snapped up, “You know nothing about me!” he barked, feeling a fire of terror erupt in his stomach, “Don’t you dare speak anything about me-“

“You’re like me, my Lord,” Sef said stubbornly, “I saw the way you reacted when I touched you, I saw-“

Lysander stood up abruptly. He had thought this meeting would help him lay down boundaries once more, that seeing and speaking with the real Sef would make the dream one a nightmare. But no, the man’s words burned through the Lord like a forest fire, baring his deepest fears and insecurities; the truth was Lysander desired Sef, the same way he had desired men all his life, and yet this was stronger and more intense and more terrifying. Lys refused to succumb to it – it was a _sin._

“I won’t be seeing you again,” Lysander told Sef and turned to the door.

 _No._ Despair seized Sef and he jerked to his feet.

“If you don’t marry me,” Sef said, the desperation in his voice making Lys pause, “I will be forced to marry my sister.”

Shocked, Lys turned to look at Sef again. The man’s dark eyes were pleading with him silently.

“B-But,” Lys gasped, “That’s _blasphemy._ That’s incest!”

“I know,” Sef whispered, standing up and carefully walking around the table towards Lys, hoping that this would sway him, “I don’t want it, I feel disgusted at the thought. That’s why you and I-“

“No,” Lys said firmly, and Sef stopped in his tracks, “There are other ways,” he pressed, “other people you can marry.”

“Tell me, Lysander,” Sef said, frustrated, “is incest a bigger crime in the eyes of your God, or is it loving men?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Lysander turned again, but he was no longer furious with Sef – now he just felt pity for the King, “Thank you for dinner. Excuse me.”

The Lord left the room and Sef was alone. It began to rain, water streaking down the dark windows looking out at the grey fields. It would snow soon. Sef rubbed a hand down his face. He was tired of the cold, but determined to not return home without Lys. The man’s stubbornness and loyalty to this shithole of a country made Sef desire him more. He felt that every time he met Lys he was peeling back layers, as if he were a flower, and finding out more and more about the man he had admired for so long – underneath the cool, poised persona was a young man full of anger, frustration, and shame. Sef wanted to know all of him.

Moments later Lysander collapsed on his bed and closed his eyes, exhausted. The days of idly doing nothing, contrasted by moments of intensity with Sef, were driving him insane.

Of course he had entertained the thought of becoming the King of Voubrenia; he imagined living in eternal summer, away from this dreary cold, he imagined a land where the people weren’t starving and bombarding him with issues that King Ormond didn’t care about. He imagined being in a place where he was free to love, a place where his and Sef’s marriage would be celebrated. It seemed like a child’s fantasy, a far-away, fairytale place that didn’t exist.

 _Besides,_ Lys opened his eyes and stared dully at the canopy overhanging his bed, _he doesn’t really want me. I am just an alternative to marrying his sister._ Somehow, that realisation hurt.


	12. Parties and Banquets

**That same night, halfway across the world, late summer.**

**The Din-Moher Harem, Antasa, Hadia.**

**The Shairin Empire.**

****

“Perhaps gold, my dear?” Burha asked as one of the attendants held up a heavy golden earring with a topaz dripping off the end to Kater’s ear. The girl smiled.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said in her warm, airy voice, “I have already had my engagement party and tonight is not my night.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t look gorgeous!” Eryel argued from the other side of the room where a servant girl was slipping her turquoise gown over her shoulders. The dark-haired woman wrinkled her nose, irritated, “I’m going to boil in this dress,” she complained.

“Hush, Eri,” Burha reprimanded her and nodded at Kater’s attendant, “the topaz goes nicely, I think, and the gold.”

Kater reached out and squeezed her hand, “Whatever you say, my lovely.”

The attendants slid through the earrings that were the same beautiful sky-blue as Kater’s gown. Burha stood up from where she had been kneeling opposite the woman on the pillows on the floor and sauntered over to Eryel. Her attendant bowed and walked aside, picking up the garments that the wives had discarded.

Eryel marvelled at herself in the mirror, turning this way and that to admire her dress and the fanciful way her raven hair was braided. Burha embraced her from behind and rested her chin on her lover’s bony shoulder, meeting her gaze in the mirror. Eryel smiled.

“I love parties,” she said quietly.

“I know,” Burha smiled.

“I just wish-“

Burha squeezed her, not wanting the woman to ruin this evening by reminding everybody of the reality of things, “I know.”

“Leahilas,” an anxious looking servant rushed in and immediately the wives tensed. Kater stood from the pillows, “Prince Omarian is outside the door, demanding to see you.”

“Why?” Kater worried, “He’s supposed to be getting ready for the ceremony-“

“Well allow him in!” Eryel interrupted, as if it was obvious. The attendant scurried away and Burha gave her lover a look – _the_ look - the one that told her that she was being too soft on the Prince again. But alas moments later Ari stormed into the room. He was dressed in white, slightly transparent trousers that ended at the calf in a gently sway, and a loose blouse in the same colour that exposed his dark, flat stomach. The sleeves were as flowy as the bottom of his trousers, and there were several more pieces of see-through material at his waist, different shades of light blue and lilac, billowing behind him. Around his neck he had a golden choker, and bracelets jangled around his wrists. He looked ready to cry.

“Prince Omarian!” two flushed, breathless attendants rushed in after him, “Please, Prince!”

“Leave us,” Eryel commanded, stopping the girls in their tracks. Ari barrelled right into Kater’s open arms and she squeezed him to her chest as he sniffled. The attendants exchanged looks, “all of you.”

“But Leahila, the Prince isn’t dressed-“

“We will finish the job,” Burha said calmly, “Thankyou.”

The women curtsied and backed out of the room, past the sweeping curtains. When the doors closed Ari peeled himself away from Kater, eyes glassy.

“What’s the matter?” the newest wife cooed gently, brushing Ari’s soft waves from his flushed face.

“Is this about the engagement party?” Burha demanded, conscious that it was getting late. The sweet music that flowed in through the open window reminded them that they would soon have to make an appearance, “Because if you want to cry that you don’t want to go then-“

“It’s not that!” Ari sniffled, and fought his tears. He had promised he’d do this; the fortnight of wedding preparations that Shairin royals obeyed had begun, and he had vowed to himself that he wouldn’t disappoint anybody anymore, and do his duty, “I’ll go.”

“Then what’s the matter?” Burha asked, exasperated as Eryel and Kater crowded in around the boy, tucking his hair behind his ears as if he was a hurt baby bird.

Ashamed, Ari looked at his bare feet and clenched his little toes. Now that he had cooled down and was in the company of the women he loved he felt foolish for letting his emotions take over. When he admitted the reason for his outburst out loud, he knew how stupid he sounded.

“I don’t like my clothes,” his ears burned red.

Burha’s shoulders slumped and a wave of tiredness washed over her.

“Don’t be silly,” Kater took over, nudging Ari’s head so he looked up at her. She smiled, “You look absolutely gorgeous, Ari.”

The boy shook his head, “I-I’m nowhere near as pretty as you were at your party,” he admitted pitifully, “I-I’m not trying to outshine you!” he gushed, quickly grabbing Kater’s hands in his, “I-I just, _oh_ Kattie, I just want to feel pretty tonight, I’m sure I can do it, and be a good Prince, if only I feel pretty...”

Kater’s heart sank, “But you are pretty, my darling,” she said softly, “so, so pretty. You’re the prettiest boy in the world.”

“Here,” Eryel rushed to the window, where pink and white lilies bloomed in a vase. She plucked several out and snapped their stems.

“Eri!” Kater gasped, “Those were a gift from mother Leahila-“

“Yes, yes,” Eryel waved her off dismissively and picked her golden circlet out of an open chest full of glimmering jewels and accessories. She came up to Ari, who had stopped crying and was watching her wide-eyed. Burha and Kater observed as Eryel carefully placed the circlet among Ari’s soft hair, before weaving the lilies through it, so they nested among the curls.

“Here,” she smiled, “Now you look perfect.”

She grabbed Ari’s hand and pulled the boy towards the mirror – he followed her clumsily, stumbling over his own feet, and then gazed at his reflection. He noticed his own flushed cheeks, his little nipples partially visible under the material of his blouse, the heavy gold choker that made his neck appear incredibly delicate. His eyes were red from holding back tears, and his nose a little wet, but there was no denying it – the flowers in his hair made him look like a forest nymph, one that had been lamenting the handsome soldier he had lost thousands of years ago. He looked like he stepped out of a ballad. Slowly a smile bloomed of his face.

“Oh,” he whispered breathlessly, carefully touching the lilies with the tips of his fingers, “It looks lovely,” he sniffled and smiled shyly, looking at Eri, “Thankyou,” he whispered, and she kissed his cheek fondly. Then Ari turned to the other two women, overcome with emotion, “Do you think Gus will-“

He cut off abruptly, as if someone had shoved a fist into his mouth.

This wasn’t about Gus; it could never be about Gus again.

For the past four days since he had unsuccessfully attempted to run away, Ari hadn’t spoken to Gus. At first he noticed that the Odelian was avoiding him; if he was practicing sword-fighting in the courtyard and saw Ari rushing down the stairs towards him he’d disappear, he sat on the opposite side of the table at dinner, and locked his bedroom door at night. With the wedding preparations slowly beginning, Ari was busy with fittings and picking out flowers and fabrics, but it still hurt that Gus was actively seeking to stay away from him. Ari had decided that two could play the game though, and had began to ignore Gus back – blatantly, obviously, making it clear that he was angry. Despite his aching heart, the Prince remained true to his cause – Gus would be at the engagement party tonight, and Ari would ignore him before Gus got the chance to do it first. It _hurt,_ knowing his best friend and the person he loved was slipping away, but for once Ari let his pride lead him.

Ari looked down at his feet, but decided he could confide in the wives, “Do you think Gus will notice me?” he asked in a small voice, “D-Do you think he’ll...think I’m pretty?”

Kater had to turn away, it was too painful. Burha placed a warm hand on the small of Ari’s naked back, moved.

“Don’t be silly,” she said softly, “Gus only has eyes for you.”

Perhaps it was the wrong thing to say, but it was time to go, and all of the women just wanted Ari to stop looking so heartbroken. It seemed to work; the boy’s face lit up and he whispered a breathless _really?_  before grabbing Burha’s hands and spinning her around to the sound of the music that grew louder as the party began.

Gahr’s and Omarian’s engagement party drowned in luxury; Therian and Seraf ensured that the youngest of the Abazza’s got everything that he deserved.  The Imperial Hall had been transformed into an ethereal realm of  deep purples and rich crimsons; thick carpets had been laid on the floor, and as the night progressed the many intoxicated guests slid off their sandals and whirled around on it bare-foot. The lamps hanging from the ceiling like tropical fruits lit the hall up in a daze of brilliance, illuminating the musicians at the head of the hall, beneath Seraf’s now-empty throne, strumming away on their lutes and drums, filling the room with an earthy, deep and seductive music. 

But the party wasn’t confined just to the Imperial Hall and it spread much further, spilling into the First Courtyard where tents had been erected and filled with pillows on which perched the people who didn’t dance, smoking lazily out of long pipes and picking finger-food off of the trays of the servers that sashayed through. The merriment and crowds of royals invited to celebrate this occasion continued through the courtyard and into the dining hall, where curtains hung down the lengths of the walls, with droplets of pure silver sliding down them, and beneath them sat tables that lined the wall and bent beneath the weight of all the exotic foods and delicacies that had been prepared for the guests. Flowers cascaded from the ceiling; the only thing more splendid than this night would be the wedding itself.

Seraf stood in the dining-room with his mother, sat together at the head table. Long ago had rules and appropriate behaviour been forgotten, and with dinner finished the guests freely travelled between tables, picking food of each other’s friends and toasting to everything under the moon. It was a hot, sticky night.

“A splendid job you did, mother,” Seraf complimented Therian as he took another careful sip of the rich wine in his goblet; he had to be careful not to become too intoxicated and ensure everything run smoothly – so far Ari had behaved perfectly, but that could change in an instant.

“Yes,” Therian had a somewhat sad look in her eyes, embraced by wrinkles, even though she was smiling, “I must say this party is beautiful, more beautiful than yours even.”

Seraf smiled, “I can live with that,” he admitted, “As long as Ari is happy. He loved all the flowers.”

“I know,” Therian put down her own goblet which she had barely touched. She felt a thousand years old, “he and Gus aren’t speaking.”

“No,” Seraf sighed, “they have been avoiding each other all night.”

“I wonder how long it will last,” Therian said quietly, more to herself than Seraf, and her tone implied that she knew that this cold war between the two best friends would end eventually. Seraf himself wasn’t so sure.

In the Imperial Hall, Kater had lost Eryel and Burha somewhere, though perhaps ‘lost’ was the incorrect way to phrase it – it was more like the two love birds stole away, probably to kiss and grope each other in one of the shadowy corridors like they were teenagers again. Kater didn’t mind; she was glad to see the women she had grown to consider her best friends happy, and she stood beneath a curtain and watched the dancing masses instead, hoping to get a glimpse of her husband. By chance, her eyes landed on his younger brother instead.

Arian had been trying all night to hold himself together and now he felt as if his insides were a criss-cross of strings that ensured he didn’t fall apart. The dinner had been nice, with his favourite food making the fact that he was sat next to Gahr bearable – his fiancée didn’t comment on his appearance, barely even looked at him. The beautiful decorations of the different rooms also distracted Ari, but as the night drew on and he drank a cup of wine he began to feel weird and out of place, especially since his plan to impress Gus had failed – whenever the Odelian so much as saw Ari enter a room, he’d leave. It was painful, and now the Prince was forced to dance with strangers.

Shairin tradition dictated that during the engagement party the fiancées could dance with everyone except each other, and for that Ari was glad since just the sight of Gahr prancing around in his clothes the colour of blood made him want to be sick.

However Ari wasn’t enjoying himself since all the nobles wanted to dance with him – the attention he was receiving was overwhelming and his feet were beginning to hurt since he had now danced for over an hour non-stop. His current partner was a short, fat, middle-aged woman with ruddy cheeks and a big smile – she was a relative of Gahr’s, and had his bushy black eyebrows, and her grip on Ari’s hand and waist was much too tight, making the Prince feel like he was being slowly digested by a Venus fly trap. He tried his best to make polite conversation but his head was beginning to ring and he felt his anxiety grow more intense. He began to stumble over his own feet clumsily when the woman spun him and his face felt hot, but she didn’t seem to notice.

His saviour appeared in the form of Kater, who had noticed how flustered her brother-in-law was looking. With her usual grace and elegance, she plucked his hands out of the woman’s and held them gently in her own, cool ones. Ari exhaled in relief, calmed by the Leahila’s soothing presence.

“Apologies,” Kater curtsied to the woman he had danced with, “Prince Omarian promised this dance to me.”

“Oh not at all!” the woman bowed to Kater hurriedly, “as you wish, Leahila.”

“Thank you,” Kater smiled at her kindly and then pulled Ari to the side, away from the sweaty heat of the heart of the crowd. She drew the boy close and wrapped a willowy arms around his waist, “are you alright, my lovely?” she asked cheerfully.

Arian smiled at her, and wrapped his own arms around her slim shoulders. The Hall fell away, the chaos of the people, the swamping anxiety. It was just Ari and Kater, swaying gently to the sweet music. They might have as well been back in the bedroom of the wives.

“I’m all fine now,” Ari admitted. Kater rubbed his back with one hand and with the other fixed a lily by his ear.

“Are you enjoying the party?”

“Yes,” Ari lied, “But my feet hurt.”

“Why don’t we go to one of the tents?” Kater suggested, sliding her arm through the boy’s, “they have grapes and chocolate, and I could do with a sit down too.” Honestly she was feeling a little nauseous herself and she didn’t know if it was the heat of the Harem or the sheer amount of people around her.

Both she and Arian were relieved when they stepped out into the courtyard. The night had cooled somewhat and they were glad to be away from other people’s body-heat and sweat. Eagerly the two of them ducked into the closest tent from which laughter crept out into the night.

Inside there was a dozen or so guests, lounging on huge pillows around a low table with cards strewn across it. The air was thick with heavy blue smoke that curled from the long pipes the guests were smoking, and a skimpily dressed attendant poured tea into round cups from where she was perched on the lap of one of the guests.

“Leahila!” the guests erupted, lifting their pipes and cups, “and the Prince himself! Welcome to our tent.”

“Hello,” Ari said shyly, gripping Kater’s arm.

The woman saw someone try to stand up, “Oh,” she smiled warmly and placed herself between the person and the exit, pulling Ari along with her as the rest of the guests resumed their game, “Hello Gus.”

“Hello Kattie,” the Odelian replied, defeated, sitting back down on a pillow. He was dressed differently from all the other guests, abandoning shawls and gold in favour of a traditional Odelian white, sleeve-less shirt and a purple cloak.

“Are you playing?” the woman asked cheerfully, feigning innocence as Ari shifted uncomfortably and refused to look at Gus.

The man raised the cards he had been holding towards Kater, “I’m done, you can play for me if you want.”

“Ah!” swiftly Kater moved Ari around her and unceremoniously shoved him onto a pillow next to Gus, so the two boys fell against each other, “Don’t mind if I do!” she plucked the cards from a surprised Gus, and sat down with the other players, closing the circle so Gus and Ari were excluded.

The two sat next to each other, tense and awkward for a few minutes. The silence between them stretched on unbearably.

“I’m sorry,” Ari blurted first, unable to take it, looking straight ahead.

“For what?” Gus frowned but didn’t look at the Prince, “You didn’t do anything.”

Ari shook his head, “I always do something,” he mumbled, “So I’m sorry.”

Gus was silent for a second, then he reached out and squeezed Ari’s knee, “I’m sorry too. I don’t want us to fight.”

Ari grabbed the hand from his knee and cradled it to his chest. Gus could hear his heart pounding against his palm and his own heartbeat matched it. _God_ he had tried so hard to stay away all night, and yet he ended up here anyway, right next to the person he most wanted. With his free hand the Odelian picked his goblet up from the floor and drained it, needed the liquid courage.

“Are you having a good time?” Ari asked, fiddling with Gus’ fingers. He had crossed his legs and was now holding the man’s hand in his lap. There was something incredibly familiar and comforting about the position.

“Yes,” Gus said, though he wasn’t sure he was, “it’s fun.”

Ari worried on his bottom lip before finally looking up at Gus through his eyelashes, “Do you...u-um...,” he let go of Gus’ hand quickly and nervously touched one of the flowers in his hair, “D-Do you think I look nice?” he asked nervously.

Gus opened his mouth, then closed it again before he could blurt out something stupid. A ring of laughter erupted from the guests playing cards, but they all seemed far away and Gus could only focus on Ari, his vision blurring around the edges; he had drunk too much, and all he could think about was how absolutely stunning Ari was. His almost sheer white clothing contrasted his dark skin in the most exquisite way and revealed just enough glimpses of his collarbone and chest to make it seductive, and the white flowers made him look even more delicate and pure than normal. And the way he was _looking_ at Gus, like he was the only person he ever wanted to be seen by.

“I’m sure Gahr thinks you look nice,” Gus managed.

Ari stood up, faster than Gus anticipated, “Right,” he said, “you’re right, s-sorry.”

And just like that he was gone from the tent, leaving Gus gaping after him.

Ari rushed through the courtyard and hid himself in an alcove in the wall, trying to silence the voices and laughter and music around him as he took deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself. How _stupid._ Insecurity crept through Ari and he pulled the circlet off his head and ripped the lilies out of his hair, breathing hard. He watched them fall to the ground, petals scattered, and choked on a sob. Of _course_ Gus didn’t think he looked nice, Gus didn’t _care,_ he didn’t see Ari in that way and he never would.

Ari pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes trying to shove his tears back where they came from. _Get it through your thick head,_ he told himself, _he doesn’t love you back._ All the steps Ari had taken towards this point, the way he had acted right all night, had crumbled away and he was back where he started.

Gus exhaled in relief half an hour later when he came into the Imperial Hall for the third time in his desperate search for Ari, and saw the boy dancing with his mother, leaning into her embrace. People were stumbling about, giggling and drunk and losing more and more clothes. The music was cheerful and upbeat and yet Ari looked hopelessly sad as he spun with his mother, and Therian noticed too, stroking her little boy’s hair and cheeks when he was in reach.

Gus slumped against a wall and rubbed a hand down his face, his ears ringing. He was drunk and he had upset Ari – _again._ No matter what Gus said it always seemed to be wrong. To make matters worse Gahr had disappeared a while ago with an entourage of young men and women and was undoubtedly having an orgy somewhere in the Harem, away from his fiancée. It was common, and even encouraged, for the Shairin to sleep with many people before their wedding night to get ‘experience,’ but Gus knew Ari would never do that and it seemed horribly unfair for him to be out here alone.

“Hello, handsome.”

Gus blinked himself back to reality and his eyes focused on three women that had appeared before him; he had been too distracted thinking about Ari to realise they were there. They gazed at him sultrily now, only dark eyes visible above the colourful veils that covered their lower faces.

“Hello,” Gus replied, puzzled. One of the women slid closer to him, and to his surprise pressed her hips flush against his, draping an arm around his waist.

“You look stressed, my Lord,” she purred while the other two giggled, “care for us to dance for you, or perhaps...,” she winked.

They were exotic dancers, Gus realised, dressed in transparent flowing dresses and thin strips of material over their breasts, dripping in gold and jewels and finding entertainment in making the guests flustered and aroused.

“I...,” Gus was ready to politely decline, but where the girl touched him he felt warmth. Urged by the alcohol, he smiled, “Perhaps just a dance.”

He allowed the three giggling women to lead him to a pile of pillows that had been dragged in from one of the tents and dropped beneath a wall. One of them handed him a goblet from which Gus eagerly drank as their performance began.

It was hard for Gus’ eyes to follow and everything was somewhat blurry around the edges. The girls came together and then peeled apart like the petals of a flower, swaying their hips in a hypnotising way. Everything else faded out of focus and Gus could only look at the dark skin in front of him, the twines of the gold around the women’s necks and arms, their long, silky hair. He was mesmerised completely, and lost himself.

And then just like that the women disappeared, blocked by a pair of white trousers that. Gus blinked, surprised, and craned his neck up to see a furious Arian over him, jaw clenched and hands in fists at his sides.

“Oh,” Gus’ brain felt like mush, “Ari. What happened to your flowers?”

Unceremoniously the Prince grabbed Gus’ wrist and yanked the man to his feet; Gus stumbled against him, feeling like a wet leaf, and allowed his world to spin as Ari dragged him off – the dancers watched on, disappointed, confused and embarrassed.

Omarian dragged Gus down a quiet corridor adjacent to the Imperial Hall – it was dark here, and cold, and the music faded away to background noise. The darkness sobered Gus somewhat and he stopped in his tracks.

“Where are we going?” he asked, freeing his hand from Ari’s grip and stumbling back against the wall, unbalanced. He found it hard to focus on the Prince’s face, but saw his furrowed thick brows and angry eyes as Ari came to stand in front of him. He felt a detached sort of numb feeling when the Prince hit him in the chest.

“What were you doing?!” Ari demanded, voice more high-pitched than normal. When Gus just looked at him in confusion, the Prince just hit him weakly again. Tears shone in his eyes, “ _What were you doing?!”_

“Enjoying the party,” Gus slurred, “Why are you angry?”

Ari’s lower lip trembled, “Who were t-those girls?”

“Ari,” Gus slumped against the wall and looked at his friend tiredly, “Calm down, they were just dancers, they probably wanted a tip.”

Ari sniffled, angry at himself for once again allowing his emotions to overtake him, but when he had seen Gus surrounded by women he just _couldn’t.._. He slumped against the wall opposite Gus but since the corridor was narrow, they remained close. Ari fought tears of hurt.

“Did you think they were pretty?”

“Huh?” Gus found it hard to concentrate.

“T-The dancers,” Ari mumbled, “Did you think they were p-prettier than me?”

“ _Ari,”_ Gus groaned in annoyance, the alcohol making him lose his cool, “Not this bullshit again.”

Omarian flinched, “I-It’s not b-bull...I-I just...,” he looked around the dark corridor helplessly. They were alone and could barely make out each other’s faces in the little light that spilled inside from the Imperial Hall. The music and laughter seemed distant, “I dressed pretty for you.”

Gus just looked at him in exasperation, though he had to admit that his eyes did dance over Ari’s curves and exposed skin, and he did look _delectable_ in that skimpy outfit, and Gus just wanted to pull him close and-

_No._

“I-If I...,” Ari bit his lip self-consciously and tugged at his top, “If I had b-breasts, and was dressed in bright colours l-like those girls would you think I-I was pretty?”

Gus couldn’t take it anymore – he was drunk, and he was utterly fucked.

“Don’t be stupid,” he blurted with sudden passion, closing the space between them and gripping his best friend’s face in his hands, “You’re so pretty Ari,” he said breathlessly, the alcohol making his tongue loose, “the prettiest, prettier than those girls, you’re so fucking pretty Ari, if I could just...,” Gus squeezed his cheeks to stop himself from saying something stupid, but in that moment Ari surged up and aggressively grabbed Gus by the shirt, yanking him down and crashing their lips together.

Gus stumbled back against his own wall from shock, eyes wide open, but Ari came with him, pressing himself up against the Odelian. It wasn’t like any of the innocent kisses they had shared before; no, Ari was kissing him _properly,_ his lips moving clumsily, wet tongue pushing demandingly against Gus’ sealed lips. He was sloppy and uncoordinated, but determined to make this last as long as possible, drinking up every second.

“A-Ari,” Gus finally got over his shock and grabbed the boy’s slim shoulders, attempting to push him back.

“ _No,”_ Ari whined like a kicked puppy, twining his arms around Gus’ neck and kissing him desperately, “ _Please,”_ he whispered urgently between kisses, and sealed his mouth over Gus’. The Odelian melted.

For a few seconds he lost control, and they were the most heavenly few seconds of his life. The whole world might have as well disappeared, because all he could focus on was Ari; how soft his lips were, the way he smelled, the tickling of his curls against Gus’ face. The Odelian wrapped an arm completely around Ari’s waist, hauling him impossibly closer while his other hand found its way into the Prince’s hair, allowing Gus to angle his head better. He kissed back with the ferocity of a man who had held back for two long, forcing his tongue into Ari’s mouth and indulging in the feeling of his warmth against him. Ari was letting out these little shocked gasps, overwhelmed, and clinging onto Gus, and Gus just wanted to fucking kiss him forever. His hands itched to rip off Ari’s clothes and touch him everywhere, but his self-control returned as quickly as it had disappeared.

The Odelian pushed Ari away, too hard. The Prince fell against the opposite wall, panting and looking like a scared, cornered animal. His eyes were wide, lips slick with spit, hair all mused. Gus’ legs almost gave out at the sight of him, and heat pulled in his gut, dripping lower...

“I’m drunk,” Gus croaked, voice hoarse. Ari was trembling, and Gus knew that he wouldn’t be able to push him away again if the Prince tried again. But Ari didn’t try again.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and for once he didn’t cry, he just looked shell-shocked, “I-I didn’t mean to force you.”

Before Gus could say anything, the boy took off down the corridor, away from his engagement party. Gus slid to the floor with a pounding headache as nausea washed over him. How much longer would he be able to keep up this charade?

**The following night, late autumn.**

**Castle Darmont, Crasbury, Wildeshell.**

**Kingdom of Beauralt.**

****

Perhaps it was hypocritical of him, but Lysander couldn’t stand to be cooped up in his chambers any longer, reading books and worrying about the future of his country. Though only a mere day had passed since he told Sef he wouldn’t see him again, the Lord found himself getting ready to attend the banquet that was being thrown in the Great Hall, for it was a masquerade ball and Lys hoped that he could see some of his Masters while still in disguise, hidden from his invader’s view and just another anonymous Lord trapped in the Castle.

The truth was he just wanted to do _something._ Already the palace resumed its festivities and was filled with laughter and music that rang through the stone walls. The thought of spending another night buried in his bed, listening to the rain and the celebrations going on in his castles was unbearable to Lys.

He gazed at himself in the mirror – he had dressed appropriately in a silky white shirt, a deep cobalt surcoat, a silver belt and a huge black fur. He put black gloves on his hands and fastened a lopsided black hat on his head, its white feather sweeping over the side. He dressed alone without the help of servants; the less people knew that he was going to attend the party the better.

“I’d like to go to the chapel,” Lysander lied to the guards outside his door. Silently they led him down the airy, huge corridors. The world outside the gothic windows was dark, and the distant rumbling of thunder suggested a storm was fast approaching. The bare branches of trees scraped against the glass and the roof, creating an eerie noise.

Lysander and the guards descended to the second floor, coming out between the Concilliar room and the chapel. Here the sound of the celebrations was louder, and the laughter of couples hiding in the crevices of the Castle echoed through the hallways.

The guards didn’t attempt to follow Lysander into the Chapel, and he found himself alone with the stained glass windows and the well, once again. This time, however, he was not here to repent for his sins. From his pocket the Lord Protector produced an ebony mask and fastened it to his face; it covered his eyes and most of his nose, and allowed him to assume anonymity.

Lysander crept among the rows of seats like a ghoul. It was cold in the Chapel, and the sound of the party was muffled as he crossed past the well and ducked behind a curtain hanging from the ceiling – dust rained down on him; clearly the invasion of the Voubren and the subsequent parties and debauchery had made the people of the castle less pious. 

Through a hidden door behind the curtain, Lysander left the room. The purpose of the door was to allow servants to enter and exit the Chapel without disturbing those praying, and now Lys used it to come out onto the empty corridor by the Solar. From there he hurried towards the stairs without hesitation, praying that the guards didn’t decide to check in on his prayers.

Despite his disguise, Lys still felt anxious as he walked into the Great Hall, gloved hands trembling at his sides. The usually grey and dull room had been completely transformed with long wooden tables heavy with platters of exotic fruit, and fountains of wine. There were huge skulls of animals Lys had never seen hanging on the walls and decorated with colourful ribbons and intertwined with vines. What came as an even bigger shock, however, was the sheer amount of people in attendance. Dozens upon dozens of lords and ladies that were prisoners in the castle were happily dancing in the centre of the room, and not in the proper Beau way either – they skipped and jumped and weaved arms together and slid around each other to the deep, earthy, fast-paced music played by the half-naked Voubren musicians. Lysander spotted a masked Lord feeding grapes to a naked Voubren woman, who had a snake draped around her shoulders like a shawl, while Lady Dofelia had been unmasked by a muscular Voubren guard, who now shamelessly danced with her while their bodies pressed flush together in the most inappropriate way; she laughed merrily, cheeks flushed. Lord Bronyan, Lys’ own Master of Household, was exchanging bawdy, loud tales with Voubren royals as they shared golden goblets of drink.

It was chaos, debauchery, and everything that Lysander had tried so hard to fight against.

All at once, the Lord Protector felt terribly alone. He retreated into the shadow cast by a huge golden curtain that hung across half of the Hall, and fought the panic that clawed at his throat. Why had he come here? Why were _his_ people here, celebrating their oppressor? He ripped his hat off and it fell to the ground.

Lysander remembered the sight of the destroyed Horness village. It felt as if Lys’ whole world had crashed down onto his head, then and now too, – he was fighting for people who clearly didn’t care, happy to indulge in opulence and wealth and alcohol regardless of who ruled them.

Sef sat on _Lysander’s_ throne, smirking. Even from the distance Lys could feel his arrogance, and it made his blood boil; how dare that intruder watch over the party like some kind of benevolent overlord, when he had taken Wildeshell by force? The foolish Lords and Ladies might have been wooed by Sef’s charms and promises, but the starving common people wouldn’t, and Lys took comfort in that.

“...aye, your ships are magnificent, but you would be terrible at raiding.”

The familiar voice, so close to Lys, made the man flinch. He peeked around the curtain he was standing by, and his heart fell when he saw none other than Baralthol leaning on the wall on the other side of it, engaged in a conversation with a Voubren royal. There was no mistaking the General despite the bird-like mask covering the upper half of his face; the brunet scruff on his strong jaw, and the silver armour he wore were telltale.

“I disagree, my Lord,” the Voubren replied – they were speaking in Brenii, “What our ships would lose on stealth we would make up in sheer power.”

Baralthol laughed, he _actually_ laughed. _Why are you here?!_ Lys wanted to shout but instead released the curtain with a shaky hand and returned to the shadows, feeling nauseous. His eyes scanned the wild crowd full of masked strangers, and he tried to pick out people he knew; how many of his Masters had betrayed him? Was it just Baralthol and Bronyan, or was that tall man over there Archbishop Rochon? Or that young man over there shamelessly kissing that lady Lord Sullian?

“Hello.”

Lysander jumped, and his heart started to pound in anxiety for Sef had somehow materialised right in front of him. He had donned a magnificent lion mask that shimmered gold, and Lys couldn’t see his expression behind it, and yet somehow he knew it was Sef – he was too lost to respond, however, and Sef laughed. He hadn’t thought he’d be found out, especially not so quickly.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, I have been informed you were praying in the chapel.”

Lys swallowed, “I-I was.”

Sef glanced around the packed Hall, “I don’t see your guards, do they know of your change of plans?”

“No.”

“I shall have them executed by morning for being such failures then.”

“N-No!” Lysander spluttered, jerking forward, “Don’t-“

Sef started to laugh and Lys’ face flushed when he realised Sef was teasing him. At once the anger returned. Sef cocked his lion-head to one side as if Lys was a pretty vase he was examining.

“You thought I wouldn’t know it was you?”Sef’s voice was light with merriment.

“I didn’t think I was that noticeable,” Lys admitted quietly.

Sef’s voice softened, “I spotted you all the way from my throne; it was as if the whole room had grown dim and you were a singular light – my eyes are drawn only to you.”

Lysander’s heart started to pound and his face burned, “S-Save your words.”

Sef pushed his lion-mask up, so it was perched on top of his head. Lys’ knees felt weak at the sight of his chocolate eyes, and his mischievous smile. The King looked pleased, and there was something boyish about the golden shawl carelessly thrown around his broad shoulders, doing little to cover his naked torso underneath, the vast expanse of muscled, dark skin. It was as if at any moment he would run through the fields, or play hide and seek in the forest – Lys wondered what it felt like to be a King, and yet remain so youthful and carefree; he himself felt a hundred winters old.

“I’m happy you came,” Sef said and his heart felt with genuine warmth.

“Don’t think anything of it,” Lys turned his head aside. His harsh, cold words did little to deter the King’s excitement; he wanted to pull off Lys’ mask and see his face properly.

Baralthol ducked underneath the curtain, heated from his debate with the Voubren politician but not wanting to start a fight, and came face to face with Lysander and Sef. He blinked.

“Oh,” his drunk mind tried to comprehend what he was seeing, “My Lord,” he inclined his head at Lys, “King Sef.”

Lysander saw this as a way to get away from Sef before he made any more questionable decisions.

“Baralthol,” he clapped his friend on his shoulder, “We need to speak.”

He quickly led the drunk general away from a disappointed Sef, and steered him to the wall.

“What are you doing?” Lys hissed, leaning in close when he had the General up against the bricks. The man who was responsible for the safety of Wildeshell blinked at him sluggishly.

“Drinking,” he held up his goblet and Lys had to fight the urge to knock it out of his hand. He could feel Sef’s gaze on him from across the room, like two intense rays of sunlight, burning through Lys’ fur. The King did not like how close Lysander and Baralthol were standing.

“What are you doing _here,”_ Lys specified, “Why are you fraternizing with the enemy?!”

Baralthol shrugged lazily and offered his cup to the Lord, who pointedly ignored it, “We’ve been cooped up here for days, my Lord,” he said, slurring his words a little, “There is nothing else to do. Since the Voubren ship had anchored in our ports there had been no more Dreiyard raids and they have been distributing rations to the villages. Actually, the kingdom is quite peaceful.”

Lysander felt as if someone had run a sword clean through his gut – Baralthol was suggesting that Sef’s invasion had done Wildeshell good. Lys hadn’t even considered that, but Baralthol was right. The Lord Protector glanced around the room at the laughing Lords and Ladies. It didn’t look like anybody was hurt, or starving, or oppressed. In fact, the occupants of Darmont seemed _happier_ in anything. Lys tasted bitterness in his mouth.

“Besides,” Baralthol broke him out of the clouds gathering over his head, “You’re here too, aren’t you? You can’t be angry for doing as you are.”

“Mind your tongue, Barry,” Lysander snapped, “I’m here for business, to see what wrongs our _oppressor_ had done.”

Baralthol noticed Lys’ heartbreak, hiding behind his stern, practiced expression. His shoulders slumped and visions cleared somewhat, “My Lord...”

Sef watched the two talk from where he had been abandoned by the curtain. Every few seconds a drunken Beau stumbled up to him to try to start a conversation or pull him into a dance, servants constantly offered him drink. But Sef had eyes only for Lysander now that the man was present, and that ridiculous General of his, observing how close the two were to each other, how they spoke with the ease and comfort of two friends.

“Ah, your little fiancée is here,” Beheret came to stand next to Sef. She had just arrived to the party, fashionable late and dripping in gold and jewels, and immediately sought out her brother. Her voice was full of mockery, “Little sweet thing isn’t he? I must admit, you admiring him from a distance is endearing.”

“What do you want, Net?” Sef asked in a low voice, not looking away from Lysander.

“What do I want in general? To end this farce and return home,” the woman examined her long, claw-like fingernails, “but right now I want a drink and a dance, and for you to stop acting like a love-struck child.”

“As always you are irritating dear sister,” Sef said sarcastically, unmoved.

Net snorted humourlessly, “I am the irritating one? Don’t amuse me. _You’re_ the irritating one, you probably irritate that little Lord of yours.”

“One day I’ll have you drowned Net, I swear to _fuck,”_ Sef looked up at the ceiling in silent prayer. Beheret laughed.

“You’re adorable, brother,” she slid her arm through his, and he hated the feeling of her naked skin against his own but when he tried to move away, she clung on strong, “We may both serve the Goddess Doede but you’d never actually kill me, you owe so much to our parents.” Sef didn’t say anything, jaw clenched. Net moved closer to him, “Come on,” she whispered and he shuddered, “Let’s get married, forget that stupid Lord-“

Sef ripped his arm free and stormed towards Lysander – he held his hand up and across the room the musicians went silent, surprising the Lords and Ladies of Darmont mid-spin. They all looked around, confused, and conversations died away. Baralthol and Lys stopped talking and looked around in puzzlement at the sudden silence. Lysander’s grey eyes met Sef’s as the man approached.

“What’s going-,” the Lord Protector began, but Sef simply ripped his lion mask off his head and threw it aside before wrapping an arm confidently around Lys’ waist and yanking the Lord against him; he yanked the shocked Beau’s own mask off before crashing their mouths together.

Across the room Net crossed her arms over chest with a soft _tsk_ sound, watching the public display of affection. The other people in attendance didn’t share her disgust – the Voubren cheered wildly, the musicians suddenly banging the drums and the guards slamming the butts of their spears against the ground. Uncertain and glancing around, the Beaus began to slowly clap, polite despite their intoxication.

The kiss was short-lived however, because Lysander pushed Sef off with outrage – the King was grinning and snatched Baralthol’s goblet from the shocked General’s hands.

“To my future husband!” he kept eye contact with Lys and an arm around his waist as he lifted the goblet up – immediately his court followed suit, lifting their own drinks and in a wild, disjointed yell cheering to Lysander.

The Lord Protector was not pleased, quite the opposite actually – he was humiliated. He freed himself from Sef’s loose grip and stormed out of the Hall, but Sef just laughed and turned to his people, who began to flock to him with laughter. He knew Lys would react like that, but for now it was fine. Sef met Net’s eyes and saw the dark fury in them. He lifted the cup to her and inclined his head – it was not over yet.

Lysander stormed down the startlingly cold corridors, cheeks burning and heart pounding. He was angry, outraged, embarrassed, ashamed, anxious...his heart wouldn’t settle and his stomach felt as if he was falling off a cliff to his death. He walked blindly, not even sure where he was going, just needing to put as much distance between himself and the haunting, echoing laughter of the party as possible

 _They’re laughing at you,_ he told himself, _they know you like men, they think you’re disgusting._

“...ander! Lysander!” the shout of his name broke through his self-deprecating thoughts and Lys stopped, before whirling on his heel, ready to punch Sef right in the centre of his perfectly mischievous face. But it wasn’t Sef running after him, it was Baralthol. For some reason Lys’ chest filled with disappointment that he choked down. “Lysander!” Baralthol clumsily came to a stop in front of the Lord, face red, “I mean my Lord,” he blurted.

“What is it, Barry?” Lys asked, defeated. Baralthol opened and closed his mouth, looking lost. It was a bizarre look for him – he was a tall, broad, bearded man and yet he was blushing and his eyes danced around the empty corridor as if he couldn’t decide on something to look at. Finally he settled on the pin that kept Lys’ furs together at his chest.

“You know, marrying the King wouldn’t be the end of the world,” he said on a rushed breath.

Lys blinked, “Excuse me?”

“I just mean...,” Baralthol uncertainly met his eyes, “Are you disgusted by him because he is a man, or are you disgusted by _him_ because he’s King Sef?” Lysander gaped at him in shock, “Or are you disgusted at all?” Baralthol asked, a little softer.

“What are you saying?!” Lys demanded, “Do you _know_ what you’re saying!?” familiar panic clawed up his chest; it was the panic of waking up sweaty and wet in his bed after having dreams about one of his male servants and hurriedly shoving his sheets into a basin full of water, it was the panic of standing in a crowd, pressed up against a man and feeling his blood rush south..., “It’s _illegal!_ It’s a sin! Has the liquor turned your brain to mush?!” he knew he was shouting, he knew he was getting unusual heated, “You should be disgusted, Baralthol! Why aren’t you disgusted!”

On a whim, Baralthol jerked forward and kissed Lysander. The Lord’s eyes widened almost comically and his brain blanked for a second as he tried to comprehend what was happening. Baralthol – his friend, one of his Masters, his _general –_ was kissing him. Baralthol who had always been popular with the ladies, who was bawdy and went to brothels, he was _kissing Lysander._ His lips were a little dry and he was kissing too hard and his beard was scratchy-

“Enough!” Lysander barked, stepping away, “What in _hell_ do you think this is?” his words dripped with a hidden threat, “This charade might work in Darmont, but outside these walls this would make you _hang.”_

Baralthol stared at him. Then his eyes widened. “Fuck,” he whispered, stumbling back, “Fuck, Lys, I-I mean my Lord I d-didn’t, i-it’s not...I-I mean...it’s not _you..._ I-I don’t know why I did that, we’ve b-been cooped up here for so long-“

Lysander held up his gloved hand, silencing him and dropping it before his friend realised it was shaking. Very quickly Lys felt like he was losing allies.

“It’s alright,” he said quietly, “Let’s pretend it never happened, the wine has made you...misjudge,” he wrapped his fur tighter around himself, “You should go to bed.”

“Y-Yes my Lord,” Baralthol bowed hurriedly and then turned and then stopped, “I-I...,” his voice cracked, “I’m sorry, Lysander.”

He disappeared down the gloomy corridor. Lys took a shaky breath.

“Well,” Sef spoke from where he had been leaning against the wall of the corridor leading down to the kitchen and watching events unfold, “That’s an interesting turn of events.”

He slid from the shadows and Lysander flinched at the sight of him, “What are you doing here?”

“I followed you, wanted to see if you were okay,” Sef jerked his chin at where Baralthol had gone, “looks like you are.”

Fury burned in him, white hot and scalding, making him want to pull out a sword and slash through the walls until the whole fucking castle crumbled in on itself, burying Net and that fucking general. But alas Sef was a king, and he had to keep himself in check. He couldn’t, however, keep the jealousy from his voice.

“You didn’t tell me you made a habit of kissing men, made it seem like I was the first man to touch you. Tell me, Lord Protector, are you actually a little whore?”

“Fuck,” Lysander covered his eyes with his hand and laughed humourlessly, “You really are deranged.”

“Answer me,” Sef barked, “did you hate his kiss, or is it sinful only when it’s me?!”

“I’m tired of this,” Lysander whispered, voice laced with exhaustion. Sef frowned and watched as the Lord dropped his hand. His eyes were sad, and gleaming.

“Are you going to cry?” Sef asked, shocked. Lys huffed out a laugh and looked at Sef.

“Not as strong as you thought I am, huh?”

“I...,” Sef took a step towards him but Lys took a step back, expression hardening.

“No,” he snapped, jaw clenching, “I’m tired. I’m tired of this occupation, I’m tired of these politics, I’m tired of feeling alone,” he glared, “I’m _tired_ of people kissing me without permission. I’m not some stupid prize to be won, I-I’m not...,” he took a shaky breath, “I’ve got _feelings,_ I’m human.”

Sef didn’t know what to say, “I only...I just...”

“You just what?” Lys asked icily, “wanted to speed up the process? Why don’t you just force your way into my bed then, huh?” now it was Sef’s turn to flinch, “Why don’t you just have your men drag me down the aisle and threaten to kill everyone I love if I don’t marry you? Why the parties, the pleasantries? Just get it over and done with.”

“Lysander,” Sef’s shoulders slumped, “I’m in love with you.”

“No you’re _not,”_ Lysander exploded with sudden fury and intensity, voice echoing off the cold, stone walls, “You don’t _know_ me! You’re in love with some stupid fantasy you made up in your head! You don’t know what I like to eat, what I like to read, what I dream about-“

“Then tell me!” Sef said passionately, rushing forward, “ _let_ me know you!”

“You’re using me, so you don’t have to marry your sister,” Lysander yelled, voice cracking, “don’t lie to yourself, or to me.”

Realisation dawned on Sef, “You’re hurt.”

“What?!” Lys demanded.

“You’re hurt that I don’t...do you really think that the only reason I want to marry you is because of _her?”_

Lysander was too exhausted to lie, or even hide his feelings. He glared at Sef.

“Did you like his kiss?” the King asked, “that general of yours?”

“No,” Lys said dully.

Sef looked at him, and Lys didn’t look away, “Did you like my kiss?”

“The one in front of dozens of people from my court? No.” Lys said coldly, eyes narrowing.

Sef stepped closer to him, a peculiar kind of vulnerability shining in his eyes, and for some reason Lys didn’t move away, “What...what about the other one?” he whispered, and reached for Lysander’s face.

Estania flashed in Lys’ head, her expression pinched in distaste. From the day his father died, his mother had not looked at him with anything other than disappointment in her eyes. Maybe this would be different.

“Goodnight, King Sef,” Lysander said courteously and left.

**The following evening.**

**Onboard the _Sava._**

**Somewhere on the Murmur Sea.**

****

It had been four days since _Sava_ had pulled out of the Cheri Harbour, and Basil had finally stopped looking at Tomoya and Ivo as if they were rotting fish someone had forgotten to throw overboard, and the boys were beginning to settle in to the comforting, steady, rhythmic life of the ship.

They both worked during the day and so woke with the first of the sun, though its rays didn’t make it below-deck till much later in the day and their wake-up call was usually the angry shouting of the men who worked during the night, who’d poke and shove at their hammocks and precariously stand on the iron bars of the prison below. Rarely did Tomoya or Ivo interact with the people who worked during the night; there was Daram who always slept until the last possible moment and performed the combined job of Jaro and Basil, steering the ship through inky black sails. There were also a few mates whose names the travellers didn’t know, old gnarly men who liked to play dice and smoked heavily.

Tomoya was a diligent worker, feeling the need to make up for the fact he had broken his deal with Jaro, even though it had been Stefla who was really responsible for it. He did anything from securing the ropes with the other sailors to scrubbing decks and helping in the makeshift kitchen below-deck. His most hated job was when two days ago he had been lowered to the prison on a rope and had to muck up the old water that had gathered at the bottom. The stench was unbearable.

Tomoya ate lunch with Ivo, or sometimes alone, since he was considerably less popular than his blond companion – Ivo might have been less physical able and lazier with his tasks, but he was loud, charming and a Dukkosh like everyone else onboard. He befriended Pola, the bizarre young girl whose place on the ship Tomoya couldn’t understand, and Tavel. He also sometimes spent his lunches and evening with the ship’s cook, an ancient, tiny woman with a face so wrinkled it was hard to pick out her beady eyes, and a bulky nose, red from drinking. Her name was Bardara and she would sit on deck when it was warm and peel potatoes in the sunshine with a shawl wrapped around her head. She refused to speak to Tomoya, always eyeing him up with suspicion if he came too close to her, but the ex-Guardian was somewhat liked by her daughter, Tastasia, a middle-aged woman with hair so light it was almost blond, who served as the ship’s physician. She was kind and patient, often having to come up on deck in the middle of the night and bring a wandering Bardara back to the private quarters the two of them shared.

Tomoya felt jealous of how well Ivo fit in. With his golden locks that were growing longer each day and hugging his face, and the freckles lovingly sprinkled across his cheeks he fit right in with the other young people on the ship. Even the generally grumpy, sandy-haired youth called Atek who did little talking and much glaring seemed to grow fond of Ivo after just a few days together. Ivo would prance around during the day, clumsily tying ropes with a crown of flowers on his head and just the past night he had stayed out on deck past dark and danced with Tavel, Pola and her older brother Hanio, singing old Dukkosh songs that sounded foreign to Tomoya’s ears. He even managed to charm Jaro and Basil, and they grudgingly offered him their pipes on one or two occasions. The only person who kept her distance from the blond was Stefla.

 _No, I’m not jealous of him_ Tomoya thought one day, taking a break and leaning on his mop and watching as Ivo and Pola leaned over the edge of the ship to let the waves spray back in their face. Tomoya could feel a smile forming on his face, _I’m jealous of all of them, because he wants to actually spend time with them, and not with me._

Subconsciously, distance began to form between Tomoya and Ivo and the ex-Guardian was glad for Stefla, who was one of the few people who went out of her way to speak to him.

“You know what?” she said on the third night during which she invited him to have a cup of herbal tea in her dining room while her father was busy arguing with Basil. The herbal tea turned out to be laced with some alcoholic beverage the crew made from potatoes, “there’s truly nothing wrong with you, Tomoya, you need to stop doubting yourself so.”

They sat opposite each other, Stefla’s heavily-booted feet up on the table that was covered in maps and drawings of the stars.

“Did someone say there was something wrong with me?” Tomoya asked, sheepishly seeping his tea and pulling a face. Stefla laughed.

“No,” she said, “but I see you looking sad sometimes. Especially when you look at Ivo,” her eyes sparkled and Tomoya heart started to pound. The girl dropped her legs off the table and leaned forward, putting her chin in her hand. There was something lazily cat-like about her mannerisms, “Tell me, Tomoya,” she purred, “Are you and Ivo lovers?”

Tomoya went as red as Bardara’s shawls, “N-No!” he spluttered, “I would never-“

“Yes, yes,” Stefla yawned and waved him off, swinging back in her chair, “I forget how terribly bigoted and _proper_ you Mairi are,” she rolled her eyes, throwing the insult out as if she was asking what was for breakfast, “but our goddess, Eriona, she doesn’t judge by whom we love, rather by the people we are. So tell me, Tomoya, if nothing mattered, if you hadn’t been a Guardian on the Wall, and if you weren’t Mairi, and you were just some boy somewhere, minding sheep and able to do whatever you wanted, would you want to be with Ivo?”

Tomoya flinched, the question seeping in deep inside him. He imagined that; he imagined a pretty little cottage, and endless fields, and mountains dusted with white surrounding it like the loving, protective arms of a mother. He imagined flocks of milky sheep, and gentle snow falling from the clouds, and a curl of smoke coming from the chimney. He imagined Ivo standing in a doorway of the cottage, cosy in a fur and grinning, nose red from the winter cold.

_“You took your time. Dinner is ready.”_

It was a fantasy, but it was so vivid that for a moment Tomoya couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. He could feel the pricks of the winter air on his cheeks, could smell the fresh mountain air, could hear the sheep. And then he imagined that Ivo wasn’t there, that he was coming back to a cold house where he’d have to start a fire himself. He blinked.

“Does it matter?” he asked, voice tight, “It’s not reality.”

Stefla smiled as if she knew all the secrets in the world.

Tomoya thought about that smile that night and the next as the hours of moonlight stretched on and he laid restlessly in his hammock, watching the unmoving outline of Ivo’s body above him. So close, and yet so untouchable. Whenever he closed his eyes all he could think of was that cottage in the mountains that didn’t exist. What did it mean? Was he simply scared of being alone again, and had grown dependant on Ivo, or had his irritation and fondness for the blond grown into something more...?

Tomoya slept, but not for long. He was woken by shouting and shaking and this terrible, deep creaking. He sat up in his hammock, which was swinging precariously.

“What’s happening?” he asked groggily as in the half-light from the lanterns on the walls he saw sailors climbing down.

“Storm,” Tavel told him, shoving on a jacket, “Get on deck!” he ran for the ladder, hot on the heels of other sailors. Instantly Tomoya was awake and scrambling from his own hammock – now that he was alert he could feel the ship shifting, and the sound of rain slamming against the wood was almost deafening, alongside the roar of the sails and the creaking of the vessel as it ploughed through the sea. All the sailors slept in their boots so Tomoya simply threw on his coat and ran down the corridor, stumbling every time _Sava_ shifted. He was the last person to get on to the top deck.

It was mayhem. Rain slammed down on him in a violent, freezing curtain, soaking him instantly. The waves had grown twice fold since he went to sleep and now reared their frothy, dark heads over the side of the ship, washing over the deck. Lightning flashed in the stormy sky, illuminating the hellish waters. Dripping, undistinguishable, wet sailors pulled on ropes and attempted to secure the sails to prevent them from being ripped by the insistent wind. Hatless and pipe-less, Captain Jaro was screaming orders at his people, but Tomoya wasn’t listening. Gripped by fear he tried to seek out Ivo among the hooded, drenched sailors.

“Come on, boy!” Basil was unmistakable with his bushy beard, only somewhat matted by all the water. He threw a coil of rope at Tomoya and the ex-Guardian caught it clumsily, “Secure the sails to the bottom branches!” Basil pointed at the tree-mast, shouting over the wind.

Tomoya swallowed but adrenaline prevented him from feeling any fear. He ran to the mast, somehow avoiding the ropes strung through the deck, and wrapped the rope around his waist. He begun to climb, clumsy since the wood was wet and slippery.

Ivo watched from where he had just tied the last of his knots as the dark figure climbed up the mast. It took him a moment to realise who it was.

“Tommy-,” he started forward, suddenly terrified of his companion falling overboard. Tavel, who was by his side, grabbed his wrist.

“It’s fine!” he shouted over the howling. Rain slapped them in the face, “He’ll be fine.”

Ivo gripped his own rope and tried to keep himself from being thrown around, keeping his eyes fixated on Tomoya. It was the only thing stopping him from having a panic attack at the terrifying state of the world around him in that moment. He watched as the ex-Guardian got to the lower branches of the mast, he placed one foot in front of the other, balancing dangerously.

 _He won’t fall,_ Ivo told himself, heart racing as Tomoya inched around the mast, curling the rope around the bottom half of the sails to keep them from unfurling, _he won’t fall, he won’t fall-_

Tomoya fell. His foot slid from underneath him and he toppled sideways, gripping the rope. His stomach flipped and heart skipped a beat as he felt himself falling through thin air for what felt like eternity. Very slowly he though _oh_ before his body slammed into the freezing, choppy waves.

It was surprisingly quiet under the ocean.

“Fuck!” Jaro yelled as the bottom of the sails unfurled, “Atek secure the sails!”

The young sailor threw himself towards the mast.

“No!” Ivo screamed like a banshee, so loud that the people around him flinched and looked at him in shock. The blond threw himself violently against the side of the ship, leaning over and searching the glistening black waters slamming against the ship. Lightning slashed through the sky and in its light Ivo saw nothing, “No!” he screamed, and the scream ended on a sob. Agony crashed over him because _oh gods Tomoya_ and he couldn’t breathe. His knees banged together and rain rushed down his face as his eyes desperately tried to search for a sign of his companion in the sea. He couldn’t comprehend what just happened, he couldn’t feel anything except this excruciating pain in his chest, as if someone had ripped a vital organ out and tossed it over board, “N-No,” Ivo sobbed, “N-No, please, come o-on-“ everything had happened so fast.

“He’s gone!” Jaro shouted over the storm.

“Shut up!” suddenly Stefla was there. Ivo had no idea if she had been there the whole time since everyone wore coats and hoods, or if she had appeared like a guardian angel, but suddenly she was there, strong and determined and not affected by the violence around her. She gripped the rope that was still connected to the mast, and was pulled tautly overboard, disappearing beneath the water. She locked eyes with Ivo, “He’s holding on. Come on,” she tugged on the rope, “Pull!”

He stumbled towards her and grabbed the rope.

“He’s dead!” Jaro yelled.

“Papa!” Stefla snapped, “ _pull!”_

 _Cold,_ Tomoya thought, _fuck it’s cold._ His hand was cramping around where he was gripping the rope – he hadn’t let go of it as he fell. He tried to open his eyes but the water stung and it was pitch black and so _quiet._ The sound of thunder was distant and muffled as if Tomoya had entered another world. He felt sleepy, his muscles seizing up, the iciness penetrating through him. Was he drowning? Was he freezing to death? He could feel himself slowly sinking down. His mind didn’t work.

He suddenly felt a sharp tug in his wrist – painful – then another. Then suddenly he was being roughly jerked upwards and he tried to ask what was happening and he opened his mouth and salt water filled his throat and he started to choke and struggle-

He broke the surface of the angry waters rapidly, and didn’t slow – his body banged against the side of _Sava_ as he was heaved back on-board by the whole crew as they tugged on the rope – only Atek didn’t help, securing the sails. He had been in the water less than a minute.

And just like that Tomoya found himself among the living again, laying on the wet, swaying deck of _Sava,_ coughing up sea-water and shaking, disoriented and confused.

The sailors let go of the rope and Basil tied it down to stop it whipping around in the violent wind. Everyone watched Tomoya as he sat up on his knees.

Ivo looked at him and couldn’t calm his breathing, overwhelmed. Seconds ago he had thought Tomoya was dead, that he’d never see him again, and now here he was, shivering and wide-eyed and looking right at the Dukkosh.

Ivo barrelled into him, landing painfully on his knees but not caring about that as he threw his arms around Tomoya’s soaked shoulders and pulled the man roughly against him.

“You’re okay!” he sobbed, clinging onto him in a way that would have been painful if he was bigger or stronger. He couldn’t stop the onslaught of emotion that rushed over him, “You’re okay, you’re _okay-“_

Tomoya didn’t hesitate in hugging him back, still unable to process what happened. All he knew was that he was out of the dark, terrifying water and that Ivo was squeezing him so tight and he didn’t care that the crew was staring. Ivo was wet and freezing from the rain but to Tomoya he was the warmest thing in the world.

“F-fuck,” the ex-Guardian’s teeth clattered and he could barely think straight, “F-Fuck I’m so cold,” he pushed Ivo’s coat aside and squeezed his face in between Ivo’s neck and shoulder and in that moment Ivo would have let Tomoya crawl inside him if it made him warm up.

Jaro cleared his throat and shouted over the storm, “Alright! You two go back down! Warm up, I can’t have you dying of hypothermia! Basil, swap Daram on the steering wheel!”

Along with Stefla, Ivo got Tomoya to his feet.

“Thankyou,” he whispered to the girl, and even though she couldn’t hear him over the chaos of the weather she smiled. It was the first direct interaction they ever had. Together they managed to get Tomoya down the ladder and below-deck, where it was considerably drier and quieter.

Tavel and Atek joined them moments later, “Nothing more we can do,” the former said with a tight smile, pulling off his jacket, “everything’s secured – here’s to hoping the storm passes quickly. Now, for some dry clothes.”

Ivo felt like he was in a daze, and Tomoya looked like he was in one. He and Stefla stripped Tomoya and nobody, including the Mairi himself, cared that he was naked for a few moments before they got him into dry breeches and a scratchy cotton shirts that smelled old and musty. The ex-Guardian was shaking violently, paler than normal, lips blue.

“Stefla, you should change too,” Tavel told her as Ivo mechanically pulled his own wet shirt off, having to peel the wet garment from his skin. He was in shock.

“I’m going to,” the girl smiled at the boys, “Ivo, are you going to be alright getting Tomoya in his hammock?”

Silently the blond nodded. Stefla went back to the deck.

“Don’t worry,” Tavel smiled cheerfully as Atek shook water out of his light hair, “storms are common.”

“Aye,” Ivo mumbled.

“You finish changing and we’ll get Tomoya to his hammock. Come on Atek.”

Atek didn’t look happy to have to take Tomoya to his hammock and grumbled under his breath but followed his friend’s instruction as they gripped the bigger man between them, his arms thrown over their shoulders.

Ivo kicked his wet clothes into the heap – the lamps on the walls kept flickering and he was afraid the flames would go out, but they remained strong as he slid on warm socks and laced up his breeches. He shook his head to try and somewhat dry his hair and then walked over to the hammocks; all was quiet.

He heard someone come down the ladder and then stomp down the corridor – Ivo looked up and saw Daram, soaked. The man immediately started stripping next to the pile of clothes the others had left. He inclined his head at Ivo.

“Good job out there,” he barked, “but fuck can’t you guys hang your shit up,” he kicked the wet pile and somewhere in the dark Tavel snickered. The normalcy of Daram’s voice, as if nothing was happening, made Ivo relax a little. In fact, nobody seemed shaken by the storm except him and Tomoya.

“Is it letting up?” Ivo asked quietly. Daram shrugged his hairy shoulders and slid off his breeches, cock out.

“Fuck knows. I can’t fucking tell.”

“Right,” Ivo turned away, averting his gaze as he felt a pang of heat in his gut, and grabbed one of the ropes to pull himself up to his hammock. A hand shot out and grabbed his wrist and the blond looked down.

Tomoya was wrapped up in two blankets, his eyes tiredly peeking out above it, long hair wet. He had shunned his stern, put-together look in favour of pleading eyes and trembling shoulders.

“What?” Ivo whispered, heart seizing up at the sight of the other man. Tomoya tugged on his wrist but didn’t say anything, though Ivo understood – the ex-Guardian was still shaking.

“Come h-here,” he managed, voice trembling, “’m c-cold.”

Without a word, the Dukkosh climbed into Tomoya’s hammock. It shifted to accommodate both of them but it was surprisingly comfortable, if a bit of a tight squeeze. Outside thunder crashed like some angry God throwing rocks down the side of the mountain, and Ivo shimmied underneath the blankets.

Daram walked past, gracefully pulling himself up into his own hammock in the semi-darkness, “Goodnight boys, hopefully we wake up above the water tomorrow,” he joked.

He was asleep very soon, and Ivo grew aware of how close he and Tomoya were. The man still wasn’t saying anything, just looking at Ivo with a tired gaze.

“Do you feel like you’re going to die?” Ivo asked with a whisper after long, long minutes of comfortable silence. Tomoya’s eyes crinkled in the corners and he uncovered his mouth.

“No,” he croaked, “Just cold.”

Ivo searched under the blanket until his fingers wrapped around Tomoya’s freezing ones – without hesitation the blond shoved Tomoya’s hands under his own shirt, “F-Fuck you’re cold,” he gritted, feeling the man’s skin against his ribs like two blocks of ice.

To his surprise Tomoya didn’t complain or pull away, instead he drew Ivo closer, wrapping his arms all the way around his torso so one of his palms rested on Ivo’s hip and the other on his shoulder. The sudden closeness and intimacy made it hard for Ivo to breathe, and Tomoya’s face was so close. He had never been this physically close with someone unless he was planning to have sex with them, and now all he could think about was kissing Tomoya’s blue lips – but it was only _natural,_ it was a natural urge, it had nothing to do with the fact that Tomoya was...well, Tomoya.

“I thought you were going to die,” Ivo admitted in a whisper, the words forcing themselves out of his mouth.

Tomoya smiled, “Would you have cried at my funeral?”

Ivo snickered, “I would have thrown your body overboard and not given a single fuck.”

“Oi!” Atek barked from the darkness just as another clap of thunder sounded outside, “Shut it!”

Both the boys had forgotten where they were – they no longer paid attention to the sway of the ship, or the sound of the rain.

Tentatively Ivo rested one hand at the back of Tomoya’s neck, cradling the man’s head back into the space between his neck and shoulder. He threaded his fingers through the man’s wet hair and Tomoya sighed against his skin, eyes fluttering closed.

“I didn’t expect you to be so relieved,” he whispered quietly, so only Ivo could hear. Subconsciously he hugged the boy harder, enjoying the warmth that started seeping into his palms and fingers through his heated back. Both of them were so exhausted after the intensity of what happened on deck that they didn’t question their sudden closeness, “that I survived, I mean. I thought you wouldn’t c-care,” Tomoya shivered and his teeth clattered together, “but then you embraced me...”

“You’re an idiot,” Ivo was glad Tomoya couldn’t see his face burning, “Of course I’d care; we’ve been through so much together it’d be a bloody shame if we didn’t get to the end.”

Tomoya smiled, and his shivers started to slowly subside as death released its icy hold on him. Somewhere in the hanging, creaking hammocks, Daram started to snore – it broke through the pounding of the rain.

“Do you hear that?” Ivo asked sleepily, “the storm’s letting up.”

“Mhmm.” Tomoya frowned, “fuck, I’m fucking freezing.”

Ivo forcefully tugged Tomoya’s head up, “You better not die on me,” he hissed, then his voice softened. He could feel Tomoya’s breath on his cheek, “I want to show you the bird’s nest that Pola spends all her days in,” he whispered, making up his mind that he wanted to share this with Tomoya, “it’s lovely, and the view is the most gorgeous thing.”

“Alright,” Tomoya murmured, eyes shutting on their own accord, “You can show me...if I make it through the night...,” he said sleepily.

Panic gripped Ivo – Tomoya was just tired, but the blond was terrified if he let the man sleep right now he’d never wake.

“I’m going to warm you up,” Ivo said firmly, but quietly. He gripped Tomoya’s face in his hands – it felt like touching a window in the middle of a winter night back home; the heat of the Shairin Empire was a fond memory – and shook his head until the man sleepily opened his eyes, “Alright? I’m going to warm you up.”

“Sure,” Tomoya said hazily.

Ivo ducked under the blankets, and it took a lot of wriggling for him to get down to the foot of the hammock – in the stuffy dark he was painfully aware of everything; his own erratic breath, the shivers that wracked Tomoya’s legs, the scratchy material of his trousers. With trembling hands the blond undid the man’s breeches.

Tomoya’s head was swimming as if it was full of sea water and the weight of Ivo on his legs was the only thing reminding him the boy was still there. The ex-Guardian could barely concentrate on anything and couldn’t even begin to fathom why Ivo was under the blankets, all he knew was that having him there was warming him up.

Ivo undid his breeches, and Tomoya frowned – _what are you doing?_ He wanted to ask, but didn’t have the energy. When Ivo drew his soft cock out, his confusion only increased and he looked up at the empty hammock above him, baffled.

Tomoya only realised what was happening when he felt Ivo’s mouth wrap around his member. The Mairi inhaled sharply, suddenly awake and alert, and his hands shot underneath the blankets to try and blindly find the Dukkosh in there somewhere, to pull him back up and ask _what the fuck he was doing?!_

Tomoya’s fingers sank in Ivo’s damp hair and he tugged on it, trying to pull the boy back up but it was as if that just made Ivo more determined, and he sucked more of Tomoya into his mouth. And _fuck_ was his mouth warm, it was like Tomoya was being enveloped by molten lava that made sparks race up his spine. The ocean seemed miles and miles away and the heat that pooled in Tomoya’s stomach chased away the memory of the icy waves.

To his horror, Tomoya felt himself getting aroused. Ivo felt it too, Tomoya’s cock suddenly growing heavy on his tongue, filling up his mouth. Ivo had done this dozens of times before – the taste of precum was familiar, the feeling of the vein throbbing against his tongue was one he remembered. But this time was different; this time Ivo wasn’t bobbing his head like a wanton slut, making eye-contact with whoever’s dick was in his mouth seductively. He wasn’t putting on a show, he wasn’t doing this to chase his own desires. This time he was an anxious boy buried underneath covers, desperate to somehow make the man against him feel good. He waited for Tomoya to hit him, or shout and alert the whole ship, and when the insistent tug on his hair came Ivo squeezed his eyes shut and sucked harder, his heart dropping. He was risking everything with this, but he had always been physically attracted to Tomoya – but his close to death experience had made Ivo realise that it wasn’t just that though. Tomoya was precious to him, and Ivo had to ensure he was fine.

His heart fluttered in his chest when he felt Tomoya’s fingers relax in his hair after a moment. He heard a muffled exhale, and then suddenly one of Tomoya’s hands was tangling in Ivo’s curls and nudging him closer to his stomach, forcing the boy to take more of the hardness in his mouth. Ivo squeezed his eyes shut and forced his throat to relax against the nervousness he was feeling. To his surprise Tomoya didn’t try to push him away, instead one of his hands slid lower until it was gripping Ivo’s shoulder, while the other one rubbed gentle circles into Ivo’s scalp. The boy relaxed – Tomoya wanted this too.

The ex-Guardian’s eyes were closed and he melted into the hammock. Ivo sucked him lazily, slowly, sleepily as if it was just them and they had all the time in the world. Warmth crept up Tomoya’s body; briefly Hiroa flashed in his mind, but he could never remember it feeling this intense and _right_ with her.

His mind drifted. He didn’t hear the faraway storm anymore, and the howling wind was one that was beating at the windows of the cottage in the mountains. The fireplace was going, the hut was warm. Ivo was beneath the sheep-skin the way he was every night. After this he’d poke his head up from underneath it, giggling, and Tomoya would brush his messy hair from his flushed face and roll him over. He’d settle between Ivo’s sunburnt thighs and nuzzle their noses together, and slide into his husband with familiar comfort and they’d whisper _I love you’s_ to each other and fall asleep tangled up, only to wake up with the sun and do it all again.

 _Fuck._ Tomoya bit back a moan as his pleasure sky-rocketed. In that moment he wanted to _marry_ Ivo. He didn’t want Hiroa, or Stefla, or anybody else, he wanted it to be Ivo, he wanted a life together, just like this, _always_ like this, just the two of them-

“ _Shit,”_ Tomoya hissed between his teeth quietly, hands tightening on Ivo. He gasped as he spilled down the boy’s throat.

Ivo somehow managed to quietly swallow it and after he released Tomoya’s cock from his mouth. The lack of oxygen and muggy heat underneath the blankets made him dizzy and as he crawled back up he distractedly thought _I made him come, I actually made him come._

The boy came up, hair sticking to his damp, red face. Tomoya lazily half-opened his eyes and looked up at him with a dark, aroused gaze.

“You warm now?” Ivo asked shakily, his own cock throbbing, lips shiny with spit and cum. Tomoya shuddered, terrified by his own desires, and the sounds of the ship flooded back to him. He blinked – the memory of where they really were was so abrupt and shaking that he felt like he had been thrown back into the ocean.

“Y-Yeah,” Tomoya muttered breathlessly, and he didn’t know what to do – he wanted to reach out and touch Ivo, to tell him how he felt, to clutch the boy close, “t-think I’ll survive the night.”

“G-Good,” Ivo stuttered, face burning. Tomoya looked at him, and Ivo held his breath, but the ex-Guardian did nothing – didn’t know _what_ to do. He had never felt like this about a man; in his culture, it was a crime. Ivo felt bitter disappointment coat his tongue at the lack of a reaction and he almost laughed at his own naivety. Did he expect Tomoya to fall in love with him because of one blow-job? He cleared his throat, “Good,” he repeated, “Because I’m not doing that again.”

He climbed off Tomoya and out of the hammock clumsily and then got into his own. He felt so cold, and his erection softened. Tomoya saw the shape of Ivo as he hugged himself and laid on his side. Confusion filled his mind – what was happening to him? All he knew at that moment was that he really wished Ivo had stayed in the hammock with him.  


	13. First Snow and Dying Embers

**The next evening, early winter.**

**Cervantes, Adanard, Beavnird.**

**The North Islands.**

****

The echoes of laughter and wild, airy music filtered through the dark forest like creating an ethereal sound that sounded like a spirit festival to a passerby, until you followed the distant flickering lights of bonfires and came upon the village, where celebrations were taking place – the raiders had returned home victorious and that was excuse enough to drink the night away and keep the cold of the first snows at bay.

Orena was sat alone by one of the bonfires refusing to dance or drink. She liked to keep a clarity of mind and watching as everyone stumbled around just solidified in her head that drunkards were stupid. She was sharpening a wooden spear by the flickering light of the warm flames before her, Mannannan perched on her shoulder, surveying the dancing Dreiyards with his beady black eyes.

“Orena!” the druid was surprised to see the son of the Chief walking towards her, swaying slightly and holding two cups of mead in his huge hands. He wore a cloak made of wolf’s skin over his shoulders and his golden hair had little braids in it.

“Roan,” she replied respectfully and inclined her head.

Without permission he collapsed onto the log beside her and offered her one of the cups – she shook her head and he shrugged, draining its remains and then starting on the other. Orena had some sort of distant respect for Roan as he was a great warrior, but she also held a vague disgust for most of the men of the village, and as she watched the mead trickle into Roan’s beard she fought the urge to wrinkle her nose.

“So, how have you been?” Roan started in a friendly, bawdy manner.

“No need for that, Roan,” Orena said calmly, continuing to sharpen her spear, “you want to ask about Callian.”

Roan blinked his blue eyes at her, “Is that like a magic power of yours, reading minds or...”

Orena gave him a faint smile, “No. You always want to ask about Callian.”

A light, almost endearing blush appeared on Roan’s face. He cleared his throat but didn’t deny it – he had no shame in his affections for the boy, “Right. Um...why isn’t he at the celebration?”

“He’s in his hut,” Orena replied evenly, “Pouring over medicinal books. Maganna’s sickness has affected him... _both_ of us, very much,” she clenched her jaw to hide her pain. Maganna was like a mother to her.

“Oh,” Roan tried to hide his disappointment. This was his welcome-home celebration and he hadn’t seen Callian in what seemed like forever and couldn’t help but feel upset that the boy hadn’t so much as shown face. But he understood; if his father was sick he wouldn’t be celebrating either, “I...you two are friends, aren’t you?” he pestered the girl.

“I don’t think Callian _has_ any friends – he keeps everyone at a distance.”

“Right, right, yes,” Roan exhaled and bit at his lip. He didn’t like the idea of Cal being alone all the time even though he knew it was true – there was no denying Callian was a loner and his only friend was that wandering bard. Orena glanced at Roan, and observed the far-away look in his eyes.

“You want to know if he truly hates you.” It was a statement – not a question. Roan’s heart started to pound and he swallowed before taking another gulp of his drink.

“Well does he?” he blurted. Orena smiled a mysterious smile.

“I don’t think he does. I think he’s scared you’re going to hurt him.”

Roan stood in outrage, “I would never!” he proclaimed, knocking over the empty cup.

“I know,” Orena said distractedly, continuing to systematically make her spear. Roan looked at her, but it was clear their conversation was over.

“Right,” he mumbled awkwardly, somewhat embarrassed at his outburst. He inclined his head politely at the druid and then feeling more confusion than relief at the conversation he finished his cup and stumbled between the fires. Immediately people swarmed him, clasping him on the shoulders and congratulating him on the victory, and although normally he liked to be the centre of attention right now his head was only focused on one thing. He needed a distraction before he did something stupid and was glad when he spotted Lug nearby, surrounded by a ring of girls.

“Friend!” Roan beamed, stopping the brunet mid-word. Lug grinned.

“There he is!” he pulled Roan into a bear hug and then offered him another cup of mead that the blond happily accepted, “I was just telling the lovely ladies here that it was a great raid, a great _fight_!” Lug grinned at the girls, “the Odelians had horses and great big swords and there was a hundred- no! A hundred and fifty of them!”

“Lug, can you even count to a hundred?” Roan laughed, looking at his friend.

“No,” Lug replied dumbly, “Can you?”

Roan couldn’t count and so drained the mead from his cup instead, avoiding the question. He knew Lug was exaggerating their exploits against the Odelians, but the girls were eating it up and Roan wasn’t about to betray his friend and tell them the truth.

“You boys are so brave,” one of the girls Roan recognised as Wynna’s friends sighed, “I would die of fright!”

“That’s not saying much, Tulla,” Aruna rolled her eyes, standing a little way away from her friends. She looked ravishing tonight with her red hair braided down her back, and she was the only one not impressed by Lug’s excited descriptions of battle. Her cool demeanour made her desirable by most of the men in the village, but when Roan looked at her all he could think of was that Callian had the same colour hair, “You’d die of fright if a sheep baa’ed at you too loudly.”

Tulla flushed in embarrassment and the other girls laughed. While Lug continued his story, Aruna sauntered over to Roan.

“Riveting conversation,” she practically purred.

“Aha,” Roan agreed absent-mindedly. Aruna was standing very close to him, and she smelled like pine trees. There was an unvoiced expectancy in the air between them; by all means, Roan had courted Aruna – they danced together at feasts, and conversed often, and Roan knew that the girl was waiting for him to bed her. As much as Roan enjoyed flirting with her, he felt no particular interest in sleeping with her – in fact recently he had very little interest in sleeping with anyone, except a certain druid..., “You haven’t seen Callian, have you?”

Mild irritation flashed in Aruna’s eyes, “No. He’s not here,” she cleared her throat, “Well are we going to dance or-“

She didn’t get to finish because just then Beorthion stood on the podium where Maganna conducted her animal sacrifices and roared, “My people!” causing the villagers to abandon their dancing and conversations and drift over.

Feona appeared in front of Roan suddenly, axe strapped to her back, “Father wants you,” she shoved her older brother towards the podium, “Go on.”

Clumsily and a little drunkenly Roan climbed up to stand by his father’s side. The Chief clasped his shoulder and grinned at his son before turning to the Dreiyards gathered before him,“Winter is upon us!”

A cheer sounded from the people. It had snowed earlier that day and when Beorthion and his raiding party returned on-shore the roofs of the huts were covered in a blanket of snow. Right now, as he spoke, the Chief’s breath turned into a white cloud in front of his face and floated upwards to the now-clear night sky littered with stars. Despite the bitter cold in the air, the Dreiyards were warmed by the mead they had been drinking for hours.

“We have successfully defeated the Odelian cunts once again,” Beorthion continued when the cheering quietened, causing another roar of approval to echo from his people. Next to him Roan grinned, “Thanks in part to my son and daughter!”

“Aye, more your daughter!” Feona exclaimed from where she was standing with Lug, and laughter rippled through the crowd. The Chief lifted his mug.

“Let us drink! To this village, and to all the people of the North Islands!”

“And to Maganna, may her health return!” the normally quiet Orena called from where she was standing a little way away from everyone, her two-coloured eyes staring at Beorthion. He inclined his head and a murmur of respect went through the Dreiyards.

“And to Maganna!” he agreed, “and to my son, the future Chief!”

Callian could hear all the yelling and cheering and the music from his hut; it sounded distant and distorted. He tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the sound of wood crackling in his fireplace as he looked over the manuscripts spread over his table, blinking sleepiness out of his eyes. The candle by which he was reading swam in his vision but he refused to rest, the same way he refused to attend the celebrations where Roan was being treated like the second-coming of Sere.

He scanned the manuscript in his hand, covered in ancient runes – he was looking for a recipe for a draught that he hoped would make Maganna regain her strength, but so far he had no luck. With a frustrated groan he threw the manuscript aside – it fluttered to the floor, already covered in books and parchment. When it landed surprisingly gently snapped in Cal – the exhausted druid felt an explosion of anger and frustration inside him and swiped all the books and papers off the table. With a loud clatter they crashed to the floor and Cal buried his face in his hands.

“You need to do this,” he muttered to himself and took a deep breath, composing himself and reaching for another manuscript. He had to succeed in curing Maganna, if he didn’t...he felt paws scratching at his knees and Ogma forced himself onto his lap. Cal smiled tiredly as the fattest of the wildcats looked up at him expectantly with his golden eyes.

“It’s nothing,” Cal whispered to him and scratched him behind his pointed ear. Ogma started purring, “I’m going to go see her,” Cal decided, “see if she needs anything.”

Ogma wasn’t happy at being thrown off Cal’s lap and glared at his master with eyes full of betrayal before curling up by the fire next to Bris. The female wildcat sat up partially, ears twitching.

“It’s fine,” Cal smiled at her protectiveness and grabbed his heavy green cloak from where it was hanging on the wall. He wrapped it around his shoulders and drew his hood up over his fiery hair, “I’ll go alone, it’s only a short walk.”

However as Cal opened the door and looked out at his dark, snowy yard and the light of the fires in the distance, Airmid slid past his legs. The Alpha walked a few paces, paws sinking into the freshly fallen snow, and then turned to look at Cal expectantly, ears twitching. The druid smiled and closed the door behind him.

“Thank you.”

The two companions delved into the shadowy forest together, silent, the only noise coming from the crunching of the snow beneath Cal’s feet. The moment the trees surrounded them, the sound of the festivities faded away. Callian was glad for the silence as he walked further into the dark; Airmid’s amber eyes glowed.

“Let’s hope we don’t get lost,” Callian chuckled. It was late and he hadn’t brought a lantern, so all he could see were the tall trunks jutting into the sky, and the multitude of stars peeking down at him from between the naked branches.

As if summoned by his hidden worry, a willo o’ wisp appeared between the trees ahead of him – a tiny, blurry, flickering light that illuminating the snow blue.

“Looks like Maganna know we’re coming,” Cal smiled at Airmid and confidently approached the willo o’ wisp. However the mysterious light disappeared before he reached it, though another appeared between the trees up ahead. Maganna’s magic guided Cal and Airmid all the way to her cottage, which emerged suddenly from the snowy forest, looking like it had been dusted with flour. A faint golden glow came from behind the windows.

Cal stood before the door and tapped his boots together to get the excess snow off his heels. When he lifted a hand to knock a croaky, “Come in,” sounded form the inside. The druid dropped his hand and opened the door.

Maganna’s hut was frightfully cold, with the fireplace reduced to nothing but dying embers – the head druid herself was a lump on her bed, buried beneath furs. Her spirit guardian was nowhere to be seen.

“By Sere’s grace!” Cal exclaimed and rushed to the fireplace, “It’s like winter entered your home, Maganna why didn’t you-,” he reached for more wood to throw into her fireplace, but the flames awoke as his emotions sparked, and roared up aided only by his magic. Immediately heat and light filled the room and Cal turned to look at his mentor, only to have the words die on his tongue at the sight of her.

Maganna was skin and bone, eyes hollow and deep set in her face. Since yesterday when Cal saw her last her appearance and health had visibly deteriorated.

“Why aren’t you at the festivities?” Maganna asked in a quiet, hoarse voice, “it is not good to isolate yourself so, Callian.”

“How can you say that?!” Cal demanded, rushing to her bed. He collapsed on his knees by her side and grasped her hand in his. It was ice-cold and felt as delicate and fragile as if he was holding a handful of twigs, “H-How can you approve of those celebrations when you are here, in this _state?!_ They should be in mourning, someone should be with you, I-,” Cal was blabbering, overcome with helplessness.

Feebly, Maganna squeezed his hand, silencing him, “My child,” she said with surprise gentleness that was unlike her, “This is not some great tragedy, it is simply death.”

“B-But...,” Cal’s lower lip trembled and he was shocked to feel tears well up in his eyes. It was all happening too soon, the woman was fading before his eyes, “You can’t die,” he whispered, “You can’t leave us, we’re not ready...”

“Calm down, my boy,” Maganna closed her eyes heavily, “I am not going yet. Soon, though.”

Cal sniffled and wiped his tears with his free hand, angry at himself for being so weak, “Is there anything you need?” he asked.

“Yes. I need you to stop worrying about an old woman and live your life. You are young Callian, enjoy it while you can. Goddess knows that youth passes much too fast.”

Callian exhaled shakily, “I don’t want to leave you.”

Maganna withdrew her hand from his grip and opened her eyes to look at him; they carried hundreds and hundreds of years of wisdom in them,“We must all leave, sooner or later. Now go. If you won’t celebrate with the others than at least get some rest. Gwyn will take you back.”

Reluctantly Cal got up knowing better than to argue with his teacher. Airmid crawled up to the bed and licked the back of Maganna’s wrinkled hand and the old druid touched the tip of his left ear with fondness. Then the wildcat padded after Callian. The cold outside seemed fiercer and more bitter when Cal stepped out, nipping at his face and flushing his cheeks and nose. Standing among the trees was the great stag, Gwydion.

“Hello,” Cal whispered to him respectfully.

The druid and the spirit guardians picked their way through the forest in silence. Cal clutched his cloak around him but couldn’t chase away the frostiness that crawled inside him. Maganna’s sickness hung over him like a death sentence, he couldn’t imagine how he’d manage without her. Perhaps it would be better if he gave up the position of head druid to Orena and abandoned Cervantes now, before he was driven out. If he left the village at night nobody would stop him...was there even anyone who wanted to stop him?

Gwydion took him at to the last trees right behind his hut and Cal sensed the loss of his presence, turning to look at the stag. The guardian was gone, as were the willo o’ wisps, and the forest behind Cal’s hut was dark and silent once more.

Callian sniffled, feeling snot drip from his nose – he had always been a sickly child and staying out at these freezing temperatures wasn’t a good idea. He hurried into the hut, Airmid hot on his heels, and made plans in his head to make himself a herbal brew before bed.

His plans were interrupted, however, upon seeing a blond, brutish man sprawled over his bed.

“Roan,” Callian growled, slamming his front door shut, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?! Get your _filthy_ boots off my quilt!”

“I came to see why you weren’t celebrating my return home,” the warrior grinned, not making a move to get off Callian’s bed and ignoring his remark. The druid felt his irritation spark when he noted the snow melting off of Roan’s shoes and dripping onto his bed, but what irritated him even more was that Bris and Ogma were shamelessly curled by Cal’s nemesis; Bris under his arm and Ogma on his chest.

“As if I’d care,” Cal spat.

Roan sat up a little, still grinning. It was clear from his flushed cheeks and unfocused eyes that he was drunk.

“I brought you a cup of mead,” the warrior slurred proudly, “it’s over...,” he pointed vaguely at the table and both Cal’s and his eyes landed on the cup of mead, which had toppled over and spilled over of its contents over the floor, drenching some of the manuscripts Cal had been reading.

“Roan!” the druid exclaimed in outrage, throwing off his cloak and sliding to his knees to try and desperately salvage the ancient writings. The fire in the fireplace jumped as did his temper, and Roan drunkenly scrambled off the bed, accidentally throwing Ogma off. The big wild-cat gave him a familiar look of betrayal and then slunk towards the fireplace.

“I’m sorry,” Roan blurted, his drunk mind having trouble focusing. He lumbered over and knelt next to Cal, “I didn’t know it fell. Here, let me,” he reached his huge hands towards the delicate books and pages, and Cal slapped them away.

“Don’t,” he growled, “You’ve done enough damage, you brute!”

Roan sat back, pouting, and watched Cal run his hands over the pages in an attempt to dry them, however he was too emotional to do much. First Maganna, now this, tonight was proving exhausting.

Roan looked at Cal helplessly – this was _not_ what he came here for...why did he come here, then? What did he expect? Somewhere in his drunkenness he had lost all reason and separated from his celebrating friends, needing desperately to see this boy; did he think Callian would be happy that he was here? The druid probably prayed that Roan perished in battle...

“Cal,” the warrior reached out with surprising gentleness, his hand yearning to touch the druid’s flushed, freckled face. The sharp sting of Cal’s slap against his hand was enough to deter him.

“Don’t,” the redhead hissed, standing up with his arms full of books, “Once again you intrude upon my home and bother me. Leave me alone, asshole.”

“Cal, _please,_ _”_ Roan scrambled to his feet, suddenly believing that Callian would disappear. He grabbed the boy’s skinny arm and jerked the druid towards him, causing him to spill the books back all over the floor.

“Fuck!” the druid yelled, “Look what you-“

Roan pulled him into a crushing hug, the little druid disappearing almost completely when wrapped up in the warrior’s huge arms. Roan didn’t know what overcome him, but suddenly he just wanted to – _needed_ to – convey his feelings to Cal, any way he knew how.

“I’m sorry,” he gushed, “I’m sorry for coming here, I’m sorry for everything. I love you, I love you so fucking much-“

“Get off me!” Cal gasped, feeling like he couldn’t breathe as he struggled futilely in Roan’s strong grip. The warrior was squeezing him too hard, and _why_ was he hugging Cal in the first place?! Why was he saying _these_ things like he _meant_ them?!

“Listen to me,” Roan said firmly, though slurring his words, “I love you, I fucking mean that, so can you _please_ stop all this?!”

“No!” Callian yelled, and his anger flared up. Roan was shoved off him by an invisible force, and stumbled back in confusion. The three wildcats watched the exchange with big eyes, and Cal stood there, gasping for air, hair mussed. Roan stared at him.

“I’m so-,” he started.

“No!” Callian interrupted, fuming, face as red as his hair, “Don’t you fucking dare! You might have everyone else in this village wrapped around your little finger, but I won’t fall for your stupid games!”

“What games?” Roan asked in exasperation, “This isn’t some elaborate plot to make you look a fool-“

“Is it not?!” Cal’s nostrils flared, “You love making a fool of me, Gallobhair, ever since that day I was chosen to be a druid. Before that you didn’t even know who I was! There’s one hundred and fifteen people in this village!” Roan was puzzled because he couldn’t see Cal’s point and he also couldn’t count, “one hundred and fifteen people!” Cal laughed a little hysterically, “and you didn’t even know who I was until you saw me as someone to make fun off! You seized that opportunity to make me look stupid when I was chosen, you _ruined_ the most important moment of my life. W-When I _finally_ thought I’d be accepted,” his voice started to tremble with emotion, “You stepped in and made a joke of me!”

“Y-You’re not a joke,” Roan took a step towards Cal, eyes full of pain, “I would...I would _never..._ C-Cal, I...”

“Whatever,” Callian turned away, his back to Roan, angry that he had had an outburst like that for the second time that night; he could only hope the blond wouldn’t remember it in the morning, “I’ll never stop hating you,” Cal said bitterly.

Those words cut deep into Roan’s heart, deeper than the blades of his enemies ever could and for the first time, through his drunk stupor, Roan believed those words. Suddenly he felt empty and without a purpose.

The familiar and easily expressed emotion of anger sparked in his heart and filled the void. _Why_ wasn’t he enough?! He was the greatest warrior in the village, and he could take proper care of Callian. So _why..._ the man instinctively punched the wall closest to him, denting it. Cal flinched, whirling around in time to see Roan storm out. His heart pounded.

He heard the blond crashing through things in the dark as he headed to his hut. Then it was deafeningly silent – the celebrations had ended.

Callian turned to look at his wildcats, “Why did you not defend me?!” he demanded, knowing he shouldn’t blame the animals, “You’re my spirit guardians and yet you’re all useless! I don’t care that you like that man, I _hate_ him and you should respect that a-and-“

Ogma whimpered and turned his head away. Callian let out a sigh as tears of frustration filled his eyes. He sniffled. He was under so much stress and he didn’t know how he felt. No, he didn’t hate Roan, not completely, and if the man disappeared from his life Cal would notice his absence. With Maganna’s state, and the spike in illnesses as the first snow fell, and his normal troubles, Cal didn’t know how to deal with Roan but he also knew he had no right taking it out on his guardians.

He changed into his long nightshirt and climbed underneath his furs, watching the fireplace miserably. Slowly the flames started to die down.

“I’m sorry,” Cal whispered after an hour of stubborn, painful, sleepless silence. Moments later he felt the bed shift with the weight of three wildcats as they climbed on top of him. Ogma weaselled his way beneath the blankets and curled up by Cal’s stomach while Bris settled above his head, placing her heavy paw on the side of Cal’s head. He smiled when Airmid licked the tip of his nose, “You are my only friends. You and Aeth, but he isn’t here,” the druid said quietly, “I know you mean the best.”

Roan woke up with a throbbing headache, smoke filtering up the half-floor of his family’s huge hut and tickling his nose. He groaned and rolled over on his bed of furs, pulling himself up into a sitting position and peering over the wooden beams, down at the main, open room below. At the large fire pit in the centre of the room was Wynna, humming a song softly to herself – Beorthion and Feona were nowhere to be seen, their beds left messy. Sometimes Roan questioned how he and Wynna were related; she was soft-spoken and shy and gentle, and enjoyed dancing and weaving and wearing pretty dresses. She had none of the grit, roughness and sharp tongue of the rest of her siblings and father but Roan assumed she took after their late mother, who passed when all three were very young.

“Morning, sister,” the warrior descended a long wooden ladder and approached the girl, wearing only his undergarments, his long hair looking like a bird’s nest.

“Morning,” Wynna smiled at Roan and handed him a bowl of warm oats, “how’s your head?”

“Terrible,” Roan admitted, yawning as he kissed his little sister’s hair. He took the bowl from her and sat cross-legged by the fire she was tending, “Where’s father and Feona?”

“Father has gone to meet with Maganna,” Wynna said dreamily, the way she said everything, “and Fee has gone to beg Orena for some kind of potion to help with her headache,” the girl glanced at Roan, who was shovelling food into his mouth, “You two came home late last night. You woke me up.”

“Sorry,” Roan said, mouth full, “We were very drunk.”

“I know,” Wynna sighed, “I left early.”

“You always leave early,” Roan rolled his eyes and scraped the oats at the bottom of the bowl into his mouth, finishing breakfast as expert speed. Pain continued to pulse between his eyebrows and he groaned, handing Wynna the bowl which she began to clean, “I feel like horse-shit; Feona might be onto something, I’ll go to Callian and ask if he has a potion-...,” the man paused, trailing off. His sister glanced at him and saw the far-away look in his eyes, for Roan suddenly and abruptly remembered the events of last night.

He had seen Callian, gone to his hut, they had a fight...

“Shit,” the man scrambled to his feet and ripped a half-dry shirt off of the clothes line spread across the room. It smelled like wood-fire but he didn’t care as he threw it on, tugging on his breeches.

“What?” Wynna asked.

“I fucked up,” Roan hopped around the room, tugging on a boot, “ _again.”_

Almost an hour of searching later, he found the redheaded druid down by the sea. It was a grey, cold morning but Roan barely felt the iciness of the wind as the sea-breeze washed over his face, the crisp air chasing away some of his headache. Snow dotted the beach and bits of ice floated on the calm, steely waves.

Among the dead landscape, Callian was a splash of colour with his carrot-coloured hair and mossy green cloak. He stood at the edge of the beach, allowing the sea-water to lap over his bare feet, his boots placed neatly beside a large rock. He was visibly shivering, his outstretched hands shaking, and yet he seemed lost in concentration; his eyes were closed as he chanted under his breath, praying to Sere for Maganna’s health to return.

“ _Boo_ ,” Roan came up behind him and pinched Roan playfully just above his hips. The druid’s concentration faltered and he turned around. When he saw Roan his eyes filled with anger and the wind picked up violently.

“What do you want?” the redhead snapped, making it clear that whatever blurry events happened last night, they weren’t good. Roan smiled sheepishly.

“I came to ask for a potion for my headache.”

“Like I’d give you one!” Cal huffed and stormed up the beach. He shoved his boots over his almost-blue, wet feet, eager to get away from the intrusive presence of the blond. Biting down his nervousness, Roan followed, keeping his distance as if he was cornering a scared animal.

“Listen,” he started as Cal struggled with his shoes, “I don’t know what I did last night, but I want to apologise for...pissing you off.”

Callian turned on him, frustration bubbling intensely in him. Why wouldn’t Roan just leave him _alone?!_

“You don’t even remember!” Cal spat viciously, “How can you be sorry for something you don’t remember?!”

“Well, you’re upset, and I don’t like seeing you upset. So I’m sorry,” Roan shrugged. Callian laughed.

“ _You_ don’t like seeing me _upset?!_ _”_ Cal demanded, “all you ever make me is upset!”

“Why are you so angry?” Roan didn’t understand.

“B-Because you-,” Cal spluttered, pointing at him in accusation. _Goddess_ how easy it must’ve been to be Roan, “Y-You’re so- you’re...you do all these _things,_ you think you can just take whatever you like-“

Roan’s eyes widened and he rushed towards Cal suddenly. Startled, the boy stumbled back against the rock as the blond invaded his personal space.

“I didn’t-,” Roan’s hands hovered over him, as if he wanted to check Cal’s body for wounds but was scared to touch him, “I didn’t hurt you did I?!” he demanded, and the _terror_ in his eyes made Cal look at him in confusion, “I didn’t force myself on you – r-right?” Roan’s voice trembled. For once he didn’t look like the arrogant, confident chief-to-be, but like a young man scared of his own actions.

“No,” Cal couldn’t stand the way he was being looked at and dropped his gaze, voice calm and soft, “No, you didn’t. You just teased me, as always.”

“Oh,” Roan’s broad shoulders slumped in relief, “Oh thank Sere,” with no warning or permission he gathered Cal up in his arms and hugged him fiercely. The boy didn’t have time to react as a blush flooded his face – it was like that hug last night, but gentler, “I’d never forgive myself if I hurt you.”

“You’re hurting me right now,” Cal gritted and tried to wriggle out of Roan’s grip. To his surprise the blond released him, and just _looked_ at him. Cal shivered, their eyes locked. A sudden, unexplainable heat bloomed in his stomach and his whole body tensed. He quickly shoved Roan aside and stepped away.

“Ro!” the shout echoed through the beach and both the boys looked up at the hill where a path led to the village and Lug was standing, cupping his hands around his mouth, “Roan!”he yelled again.

“I-,” Roan glanced at Callian.

“I’m busy,” the druid turned away so the warrior didn’t see how red his face was. Roan hesitated, and then without a word jogged up the hill towards his best friend. If Lug was out of bed before noon it meant something important had happened.

Callian was left alone on the beach. With a sigh he sat on the rock and watched the waves calmly lick at the shore. He pulled his knees to his chest and pulled the hood of his cloak up to keep the chilly wind at bay, watching the ice pieces floating around.

He desperately wanted Roan to come back.

“Stop it,” Cal groaned and curled his arms around his head, squeezing his eyes shut as if that would make his feelings for the warrior change. Last night he couldn’t sleep, remembering the blond’s strong arms around him, and now today...Cal wasn’t stupid. Roan might’ve been a big, dumb oaf but he was _charming,_ and everybody in the village wanted him. Cal didn’t fool himself into believing he was special – the only reason Roan kept pestering him was because Cal refused to submit to him. He knew that if he allowed himself to sleep with Roan he’d be discarded like a forgotten toy the next day. Cal felt hot just thinking about doing that; how humiliating it would be to sleep with Roan whose sexual exploits were known throughout Cervantes and surrounding villages. Cal could tell what he’d be like during sex, despite the fact he’d never had it, probably being the last virgin over te age of fifteen in the village – he’d be shy and awkward and too pale and he’d get awfully red and out of breath. Roan would laugh at him, and then tell everyone how terrible Callian had been.

It could never happen.

Cal sat there until his bum ached and he couldn’t feel his exposed hands and face anymore, and the water on his boots had start to turn to ice. He finally gathered himself up and trekked through the sparse trees and back into the village. It seemed surprisingly quiet, and an uneasiness settled in Cal’s gut.

His legs took him to Orena’s hut, a little building settled between two bigger ones and almost swallowed up by snow. The druid was outside, her short hair damp, two-coloured eyes locked in the flames of the campfire she sat by. Her face, as always, was unreadable.

“Hello,” she didn’t look up as Callian approached, snow crunching under his boots, “You’ve been gone for ages.”

“What’s happened?” Cal asked uneasily, hugging himself. Orena looked up at him.

“Odelians have invaded Novum,” she brushed her hand over the flames as if to wipe away an image, and didn’t flinch at the heat, “Beorthion gathered most of the warriors and left some two hours ago. You were at the beach for forever, did you see anything?”

“Most of the warriors?”Cal blurted, ignoring the second half of Orena’s sentence. Novum was on the border with Dumbria, and a days march away. To think that the Odelians had dared to attack Adanard, and to venture this far West of the North Islands was worrying; it was undoubtedly retaliation for the last raid.

“Aye.”

“Has-,” Cal stopped himself, knowing how foolish he’d sound. Understanding flickered in Orena’s eyes.

“Aye, Roan’s gone.”

“I-I didn’t mean to ask about him!” Cal protested, blushing.

“Whatever,” Orena stood. Cal swallowed.

“Have you seen anything in the flames?”

The girl glanced at him, “Nothing you’d like to hear about,” she said, voice measured. Callian worried at his bottom lip, “I sent Mannannan with them,” the girl said suddenly, in a rare moment of comfort, seeing Cal’s anxiety, “He’ll bring news back soon.”

“Right, I-I’ll...,” Cal cleared his throat, “I’ll start preparing medicine...for when they return.”

_He stood on the battlefield in the height of the night. The moon hung swollen and heavy in the sky, casting a silver light over the horrors around him. Bodies laid strewn carelessly across the frozen field, arrows and axes sticking out of their backs. They were nameless, faceless, just corpses that ravens would pick at in the morning._

_It was eerily silent, and freezing cold, but there were lights in the distance_ _–_ _the lights of camps. A wailing broke the silence, distant and full of agony. The opposing armies had retreated after this horrifying massacre, and the battle wasn_ _’_ _t over. It would resume again at dawn._

_Callian didn_ _’_ _t know how he knew that. He stood in his nightshirt among all the decay and death, shivering. To anybody who passed he would have looked like a ghost_ _–_ _white face, white night-shirt, terrified, big eyes. Except nobody would see him, because he wasn_ _’_ _t_ really _there. He turned in a slow circle, eyes dancing over the naked trees nearby, inky black and clawing up towards the sky like the crooked hands of hags. He tried to identify the bodies, to see if they were Odelian or Dreiyard, but it was too dark. The clouds rolled over the moon and a mist descended over the field, blanketing the bodies. A raven cawed somewhere._

_Callian didn_ _’_ _t want to be there anymore._

He woke with a start, a cold sweat having broken over his body. Flames roared up in the fireplace at his panic, and then died down again as Cal sat there, gasping for air, heart racing and pumping adrenaline through him.

Bris, Ogma and Airmid were standing by Cal’s bed, their eyes glued to him as if ensuring that he was awake and alive. Their expressions were full of worry – Bris meowed gently at Cal.

“It’s fine,” the druid said hoarsely, but it wasn’t.

He knew better than to disregard his visions, for it was what it was, not dreams like the ones normal people got. Callian had ancient magic inside him, the magic of nature and Sere herself, and the dreams of druids carried much weight.

Cal shivered and looked around his shadowy hut. It was a rare moment in which he hated the fact that he was alone. He wished there was someone laying next to him, someone who’d smile sleepily at him and reach up and cup his cheek and tell him it was just a bad dream and to get back to sleep. But alas, Callian was alone and there was only two people he could bother with his nightmare. And one of them was dying.

Maganna wasn’t asleep, laying in her hut. It was cold and the fire had died out a long time ago, but the old woman barely felt it. Gwydion was standing vigil over her, waiting for the moment she was ready to depart this world, a firm reminder that her days were numbered. She could feel the disruption in the air, and knew there was a battle that would happen soon.

Wynna wasn’t asleep. She laid in the bed she normally shared with her sister, cold and alone and terrified to fall asleep. Her eyes were trained on the fire-pit and every so often she’d steal from the furs and poke at the wood to get the flames going again. She hated when her family left for battle, leaving her all alone and wondering how many of them would return.

Orena wasn’t asleep, she knew better than to try and rest in such a tumultuous time. Instead she sat outside her hut in the darkness, wrapped up in a huge fur that swallowed her bird-like form up, charting the stars. It was a clear night, and the moon shone brightly, reflecting off the snow that covered everything. Cervantes was silent. Orena was so lost in tracing the constellations that she barely felt the cold. She did, however, hear the whisper of the trees – a breeze picked up and rustled through the bare branches, sounding as if they were still full of leaves. The druid dragged her eyes away from the night sky and saw Callian approaching her quietly, clutching his own fur around her, his three big wildcats padding silently around him.

“Dreams?” Orena asked. Callian nodded silently and sat down on the log next to her. The trees grew silent, and clouds quietly stole across the sky, creeping towards the moon. Cal paled. Neither of the druids said it, but they were glad for the other’s company.

“I saw the battlefield,” Cal whispered. Orena exhaled.

“Did we win?”

“I don’t know,” Cal bit his trembling bottom lip, “I don’t think it’s happened yet, but I have a bad feeling.”

“It’s alright,” Orena calmed him. She herself didn’t sense anything peculiar except the anxiety of the air around her at the killing that would happen. But that wasn’t new; the Dreiyards were always in battle.

There was panic in the pit of Cal’s stomach however, a panic neither Maganna nor Orena could feel, but one that plagued Wynna, and one he couldn’t explain.

“We will triumph,” Orena said quietly.

“How do you know?” Cal blurted, “You always seem to know so much.”

Orena could hear the bitterness in her voice; she knew how scared Callian was of not becoming the next Head Druid. The girl shrugged, unsure of how to answer him. She just knew things.

A raven fluttered down from the darkness suddenly, cawing, and Cal flinched. A small smile appeared on Orena’s face and she stuck out her arm, allowing the bird to land on it.

“Mannannan,” she whispered fondly and her Spirit Guardian looked up at her with beady eyes, cocking his head to the side, “What are the news?”

In the eyes of her Guardian she could see pain, and fear, and adrenaline and the rush of excitement of battle preparations. She could hear steel scraping against steel and two languages mixing together as commands were shouted. Nothing was definitive, and everything was clouded by the haziness of not knowing.

“You’re right. Our people hadn’t gotten to the battlefield yet.”

Callian stood up, “I know,” he was more agitated now. He and Orena knew of the battle to come, and yet they could do nothing about it. The powers of druids were limited. Cal saw the moon in the clear night sky – it wouldn’t happen tonight; the dead bodies he saw on the frozen field were still alive right now, animated and pumped with hot blood. By tomorrow they’d be dead. The knowledge was crushing.

Bris and Ogma rubbed themselves against Cal’s legs comfortingly as Airmid trotted up ahead, the way they came. He turned to look back at Cal – he was right, by staying with Orena Cal would only make himself more anxious.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he told the girl. She inclined her head, and then said softly.

“We will win.”

Callian didn’t care about winning, he cared about people coming back. One person especially.

**That same winter night.**

**Castle Darmont, Crasbury, Wildeshell.**

**Kingdom of Beauralt.**

****

Lysander laid shivering under his furs, in an agitated, light sleep. He was unconscious, and yet he could hear a distant, bizarre whispering in a language he could not comprehend. He frowned into his pillow as the whispers grew louder and louder, filled with sounds that made it seem like snakes were hissing at him. Was it a dream?

Hands violently shook the Lord Protector awake and with a gasp the man sat up in bed, shocked to see two Voubren guards and a frightened maid leaning over him. The maid’s face was pale and she held a candle that flickered off the impassive faces of the men on either side of her. Only then did Lys realise the whispers he had been hearing were the men speaking in Brenii.

“What’s happening?” he asked the Beau maid as the guards stood back respectfully, allowing Lys to stand up. They were fully dressed and holding spears but he was in his night-shirt and was immediately assaulted by the piercing cold of his bedroom; outside his window heavy snow fell over Darmont, and judging by the fire in the fireplace, which was reduced to embers, it was very late at night or very early in the morning.

“I don’t know my Lord,” the maid curtsied clumsily; she too was in her night clothes, and the auburn hair that fell freely around her shoulders suggested she had been awoken not too long ago, “I was instructed to help you dress.”

“Help me dress?” Lys blinked sleep from his eyes and turned sharply to one of the guards, “What is the meaning of this?” he barked in Brenii.

“Apologies, Lord,” the guard replied calmly, “But we have orders from King Sef to get you dressed.”

“Dressed for what?” Lys demanded.

“That was undisclosed. Please don’t make a fuss, my Lord.”

Weirdly Lys felt like a child again. He remembered vividly the morning he had been dragged from bed by Ms Caltehway the day his father passed. But the old woman had died and been buried many years ago, and Lys was the Lord Protector and not some scared little boy. He ignored the cold and straightened up.

“Leave us,” he instructed the guards, and they did, though he knew they were just beyond the closed door. The maid rushed to the fireplace and poked at the wood with a metal poker, urging the flames to rear up and warm the room.

“I’m sorry, my Lord,” she gushed and returned to him, curtsying, “I was roused so quickly, I didn’t have time to dress.”

“It’s alright,” Lysander assured her with a calming smile, “It is a bizarre and troubling time. What is your name?”

“I’m Lucille,” the girl wouldn’t look him in the eye. She approached the chest that held his clothes and began to pull things out. Her chubby, flushed cheeks and big doe-like eyes made her seem very young.

“Just a shirt and breeches,” Lys ordered her, “and a cloak. Whatever this nonsense is I plan to be back in bed soon.”

He had no idea what ridiculous farce Sef had come up with this time, but the late hour made him worry. Perhaps Darmont was under attack, or perhaps the unpredictable King had suddenly lost his patience and taken Lys’ word. The Lord’s heart pounded as he imagined that he was being taken to a forced wedding ceremony...

Lucille dressed him in silence, her pale hands trembling as she did up the buttons of his shirt. She seemed shy and scared, and Lys felt bad for being somewhat relieved that not everybody in the occupied castle was having a great time.

“My Lord?” Lucille spoke up suddenly as she knelt before Lys to tie his boots.

“Yes?”

The girl looked up at him with big eyes, “Are you going to marry King Sef?”

Lysander’s heart dropped, “I...,” he swallowed, not wanting to lie. He didn’t know what the King would make him do, “I-I don’t know,” he managed.

To his surprise the girl stood up and a beautiful smile blossomed on her face, “If you do,” she said softly, “Would that make loving the person of the same sex not a sin?”

“What do you mean?” Lys frowned.

“I-I only...,” Lucille tucked a curl behind her ear and continued in a breathless whisper, as if confessing a secret to a friend. She was young and naive and the informal nature of this meeting made her brave, “I love Alia. She’s a maid here, in the castle. My parents want me to marry Darwin, a boy from the village, but I cannot imagine ever being with anyone but Alia. Oh my Lord, I _know_ it’s a sin but...,” she sighed dreamily, “She is so beautiful, and I love her so.”

Lysander stared at Lucille, and the way she smiled, almost to herself. Something other than shame and fear gripped his heart. Was this how some were perceiving this occupation? As a way to liberate them from the constraints of the Ilyndo religion and the conservative government? Lys had never viewed it like that.

“I-I apologise!” Lucille stuttered out, blushing at Lys’ stunned silence, “my mother always says my tongue is too loose!”

“No,” Lys assured her quickly, “Not at all, it’s only...your words have made me think. Your honesty is refreshing. Thank you,” he said sincerely.

The door to his chamber opened.

“My Lord,” this time it was the Captain of the Guard himself, Heroti, who came in, “I am afraid I must hurry you.”

“Yes,” Lysander smiled at Lucille, “I’m ready.” And he was – for the first time he wasn’t terrified to meet Sef, despite the circumstances.

Heroti and his two guards ushered Lys through the dark, silent castle, candles in hand. They looked like a group of ghosts, their shadows long as they flickered across the stone walls. Wind howled through the cracks and crevices of the castle, and the iciness of the night stole inside; in the darkness the Lord Protector barely recognised the place he grew up in. Lysander shivered and clutched his fur around him, taking comfort in the clattering teeth of his guards – the Voubren were not used to the bitter cold of the northern world.

When Lys was steered towards the front doors he felt confused, but decided not to ask questions. The courtyard was layered in snow and the sky was dark with heavy clouds that spat out stray snow petals that fluttered aimlessly towards the lone carriage that stood on the stone, the four horses in front of it dark and agitated. Nearby the pond was frozen solid. Lys let out a breath that clouded before his face and was glad for the gloves that covered his hands, providing at least some kind of protection from the winter night. God, how Lys yearned for the summer.

Wordlessly Heroti packed him up into the carriage, which was unfortunately only a little warmer than the outside, and then sat opposite him. The other guards sat at the front of the carriage, doubling as drivers. Wherever Sef wanted Lys, he wanted as little people as possible involved.

“Am I going to be executed?” Lys asked, knowing he wasn’t. Heroti lit the lamps on the walls with a match, bringing some light and warmth into the carriage.

“No,” he said, settling back, spear in hand. He didn’t betray anything else.

Lysander nudged back the curtain of the window and pressed his face close to the glass, trying to busy himself with something other than worrying about where they were going. The snowy landscape outside rolled by. They went past the dark fields, where untouched snow shimmered with little specs in the light of the moonlight. The bare trees swayed in the winter wind and the carriage began to climb up a hill; down below Lys could see the town of Crasbury, a huddle of houses and shops and inns with a few lights sprinkled haphazardly around. As they went further up the hill and rounded it he also saw Castle Darmont – it was in that moment that his mind finally woke enough for him to realise that it had been bizarrely silent when he was roused. The sky was still dark and yet there was no party and the castle stood silent and cold and dark. Lys shivered.

It began to snow when the carriage entered into the forest, and Lys’ eyes began to play tricks on him as the shadows deepened. Among the bare trees he fancied he saw animals, and people running. He rarely came to these woods and knew of gossip that some of the witches from the Wild Lands had taken residence here. Gripped by discomfort at the thought, and trying not to think about who or _what_ could attack a long carriage in the middle of the night. He released the curtain and leaned back in his seat.

Before the full hour could pass, the carriage came to a stop. Lys, who had began to doze off to the rhythmic sound of the horse’s hooves on the ground, blinked himself awake and Heroti was already halfway out of the carriage.

“We have arrived, my Lord,” he said, opening the door fully for Lys. The Lord Protector ignored the Voubren’s helping hand and got out himself.

Lysander found himself standing in a sizeable, circular courtyard surrounded by apple trees devoid of leaf or fruit but powdered lovingly with snow. A gate surrounded the courtyard, and beyond it was the gaping darkness of the forest, but it seemed to be kept at bay by the brilliant, warm, golden light that spilled from the gorgeous manor house that stood in front of Lys. It was four floors high and made its roof was littered with little towers. Its many windows were alight.

“Where are we?” Lysander asked Heroti, but the Captain of the Guard didn’t answer. Instead, the front doors opened and King Sef stepped out. He smiled brilliantly at Lys and the Lord’s heart fluttered. He stood in the snow, and just a few steps away was Sef who seemed out of this world, surrounded by the warm glow of candle-light and dressed in a silk shirt the colour of the ambers that decorated his neck. The cold seemed unable to touch him.

“Lysander,” he said, “You came.”

“Y-Yes,” Lysander stuttered, overwhelmed. He forgot that he had been brought here by force.

“Come in,” Sef moved aside in the door. Lys swallowed but for some reason didn’t hesitate – perhaps it was his sleepiness, or the surrealness of the whole situation, or perhaps he just wanted to get away from the biting cold. No matter the reason, Lys found himself climbing up the stone steps and passing Sef in the doorway. The King closed the door, and Heroti and the Voubren guards remained outside. The two of them were alone in the house.

“Let me take your fur,” Sef said, and slipped it off Lys’ shoulders. The Lord blinked at him, then blinked at the beautiful hallway he was in. The carpet was a luscious crimson and a stunning chandelier hung overhead, its candles burning cheerfully. It was warm here, much warmer than Darmont, and even without his fur Lys felt comfortable.

“What’s going on?” he asked faintly.

“Heroti didn’t tell you?” Sef asked, smiling, “We’re having dinner. I thought you could use some time away from the castle. Come.”

Sef took Lys’ hand in his own and led him down the corridor. Even through his gloves Lys felt how impossibly warm Sef’s skin was, as if he carried the sun of Voubrenia within him. It was intimate, and informal. It felt...as if Lys and Sef were just two anonymous men, not a King and a Lord Protector. It felt like a dream, which was why Lys didn’t snatch his hand back. On his part, Sef was just glad he hadn’t been punched in the teeth yet though he didn’t know what to make of Lys being so docile.

The Lord Protector was just tired of fighting.

They came into the dining room, where a long table was set for two. A candelabra stood in the centre, providing soft illumination. The fireplace buzzed happily, and Lys sat down to Sef’s left where a plate of meat and potatoes had been set for him. The King poured him a wine glass. He hadn’t thought this would work, and yet Lys was here. Albeit he was looking very confused, but at least he was present.

“Whose house is this?” the Lord asked, looking around at the creamy tapestries and paintings of summer landscapes on the walls.

“Mine,” Sef cut himself a piece of meat and put it in his mouth.

“Yours?” Lys quizzed. Sef nodded.

“I bought it before I even came to Wildeshell, in case Darmont proved hard to take.”

“But...,” Lysander found it hard to understand what was happening.

“I have friends here, my Lord,” Sef reached for Lysander’s hand but this time the Lord drew it back and dropped both his hands into his lap. Sef couldn’t help but feel dejection, afraid that any moment Lys would get angry and the peaceful mood would be destroyed by reality.

But Lys just slipped off his gloves, picked up his fork and started to eat quietly. Sef watched him out of the corner of his eye. For a moment neither spoke as Lysander tried to sort out his thoughts and Sef wracked his brain for something not volatile to talk about. Honestly, he was just happy to be in Lysander’s calming presence. He drank his wine, but Lysander abstained from his and when he put his hand back on the table, Sef reached for it in a burst of bravery.

Lys didn’t pull his hand back this time, something in his head telling him it wouldn’t stop Sef anyway. Both the men looked at where they were linked, at the contrast between their skins – there was nothing separating them now. Encouraged by Lys’ compliance, Sef interlocked their fingers and then stroked his thumb down the side of the Lord’s hand. When he looked up, Lys was looking at him in a weirdly dazed way, flushed. Sef’s heart started to pound and dinner was promptly forgotten.

 Lysander felt heat crawl up from where he and Sef were touching, heat he could barely stop. He felt light-headed and his skin seemed to tingle with anticipation. He had been woken up so suddenly and been so confused he didn’t have the time or strength to build up his defences. He was painfully aware that he _wanted_ Sef to force their bodies together again, to touch Lys passionately the way he did in the Concilliar Room...

The Lord shivered, and blurted without thinking, “Are you going to kiss me again?”

_I’m tired of people kissing me without permission._

Sef snatched his hand back abruptly, surprising Lys, “No,” he said, voice tight and expression pained, “No, I asked you here to talk, to get to know you better...”

Lysander swallowed down bitter disappointment and grabbed his goblet. The rich wine flowed down his throat, much sweeter and thicker than the watery Beauralt wine. He needed liquid courage.

“Then talk,” he said. Sef took a deep, calming breath.

“I wanted to give you some freedom,” he admitted quietly. Snow fluttered against the dark windows, “I don’t want you to be my prisoner, my Lord.”

“Then leave Wildeshell.”

Lys’ eyes landed on the knife he had just put down. _I could kill him,_ he thought, _I could kill him right now._

“Please,” Sef asked softly, “Can we talk about something else?”

Lys sighed, “What do you want to talk about?”

“You,” Sef pushed his almost empty plate away and leaned his chin in his hand, looking at Lysander with soft eyes, “What was your life like?”

“My whole life?” Lysander chuckled, “the night isn’t long enough.”

“Just tell me something. Anything.”

Lys looked at him and debated whether to give in, but honestly he saw no harm in speaking with Sef. Baralthol was his only friend and they only spoke military tactics and the man’s sexual exploits. This was...different, refreshing.

“I used to be a very...,” Lys looked for the right word, “ _chaotic_ child.”

“You? Chaotic?” Sef cocked an eyebrow, a smile playing on his lips. Lys found himself mirroring that smile, “That’s hard to believe.”

“Yes. You wouldn’t think it now but before...,” he cleared his throat and looked away for a moment, “before my father died I was very carefree. I was the only one of my parent’s children to survive infancy and my mother always had an arsenal of nurses and maids to look after me and ensure I wasn’t sick or in danger,” he rolled his eyes, finding it surprisingly easy to open up. Perhaps it was the wine, “it only made me want to act out more. I liked to sleep in till noon and go on adventures outside. Countless times I’d get into trouble for climbing up trees or wandering into caves. I ran away so much the Castle was in constant state of panic looking for me,” he laughed lightly there and Sef could see some of the merriment and mischievousness of the little boy Lys was talking about somewhere deep in his eyes, “once in early spring I couldn’t wait for the summer and went swimming in the lake with some of the village children. I almost got pneumonia. My mother was furious,” Lys shook his head.

“That is insane to try and believe, that you were once like that. Where did that chaotic little boy go?” Sef asked. Lys tensed.

“He had to make space for the Lord Protector,” he replied quietly, then cleared his throat again and sat up straighter. He didn’t want this light-hearted conversation to end, “I suppose your childhood was much different.”

“Yes,” Sef didn’t want to pry, happy that he was having an _actual_ conversation devoid of insults and threats with the man he loved, “no threats of pneumonia for me. The worst thing we had to fear when going swimming was crocodiles.”

“Crocodiles!” Lys’ eyes widened, “I read about them in the encyclopaedias. Were your parents not scared for you?”

Sef shrugged, “They were, but they knew the importance of freedom for a young boy,” he smiled, remembering the warmth of the sun on his skin as he’d dry on the river-bed. Gods, how he missed Voubrenia, “my sister and I were wild children. She was different then, she was my _sister._ Now she desperately wants to be my wife,” he cringed at the thought. Lys smiled sympathetically.

“You Voubren are complicated and confusing.”

Sef laughed, “No, _you’re_ complicated and confusing.”

Lys rolled his eyes. It suddenly felt like they were old friends, “We’re definitely not, you’re the ones with a bizarre religion – I mean, whose expected to pick whether to serve the god of life or death at sixteen winters old?!”

“Yes,” Sef grinned, “Perhaps we _are_ a little complicated. Do you know the story of Doede and Lewen?”

“Briefly,” Lys smiled.

Sef reached for the pitcher of wine, “Well would you like to hear it?” he asked, refilling Lys’ goblet and then his own.

“Yes,” Lysander said, “I’d like that.”

They drifted to the carpet by the fireplace as if they were children again, sitting cross-legged and sipping their wine. Lysander didn’t know what he was doing and knew he was being massively vulnerable, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Dawn was fast approaching, and he was barefoot with his worst-enemy, listening to some foreign fairytale. He didn’t feel like the Lord Protector, for the first time in years. He just felt like Lysander, and it felt good. Sef was making him feel _human._

“There were once two life gods; Lewen, and his sister-wife, Doede,” the King began.

Lys made a face, “Why does it have to be his sister?”

“Shush,” Sef chuckled, “It was thousands of years ago, listen to the story.” Lys nodded and sipped his wine happily, “so Lewen and Doede were minding their own business, probably eating pineapples and having sex-“

 _“Hey!”_ Lys gasped, outraged, “wait, what’s pineapples?”

“Stop interrupting me!” Sef gave Lys a pointed look and the Lord giggled. He felt a little like a child, and the wine was making him tipsy, “However one day Lewen saw a beautiful water spirit bathing in a lake, all naked and sexy,” he wiggled his eyebrows at Lys, who snorted into his cup and blushed, “and he just couldn’t keep his hands to himself. So he fucks this water spirit in this river, and feels a little bit bad about it-“

“As he should,” Lysander interrupted, “Wait, actually, never mind. Adultery is bad but incest is worse.”

“Precisely, my Lord,” Sef was also feeling somewhat drunk and his heart fluttered in happiness when he and Lys clinked their goblets together, agreeing on something perhaps for the first time ever. Some of their wine sloshed on the carpet and they giggled. Lys got the flagon of wine from the table and returned to the fireplace, topping up their cups, “anyway, so he regrets doing it and doesn’t tell Doede, however some months later there are thousands of screaming toddlers all over the world. See, Lewen had gotten the water spirit pregnant and she had birthed humans onto the earth. So naturally Doede finds out and she is furious. The water spirit uses all of her magic to cast a protective spell on her offspring, preventing Doede from killing them, and then, exhausted, turns into the waters of the river.”

“That’s sad,” Lys pouted.

“It is,” Sef admitted, “However that doesn’t stop Doede and in her fury she vows to destroy humanity, no matter how much time it takes. She turns her back on Lewen and begins to turn humans against each other, urging them to kill. Seeing this, Lewen forsakes his wife and promises to protect humans as it was the dying wish of the water spirit. In that way Lewen remained the lone god of life and Doede became the goddess of death and they have never reconciled.”

Lysander leaned on the wall next to the fireplace, eyes drooping with tiredness and drunkenness. He sipped his wine, “So what do the Voubren have to do at sixteen then?”

“Well,” Sef said, “at sixteen we pick which god we want to serve. If we follow the path of Doede we can live a life of what you Beaus would consider sin – we can go to war and take what we would like and live a life of pleasure. However this means that upon death we go straight to the Underworld, whereas those who serve Lewen are forbidden from killing or harming others and must live a life of love and charity, in return for eternal life and endless reincarnation.”

“Wow,” Lysander breathed, “What a choice. Who do you serve?”

It was a stupid question, and suddenly Sef felt shame, “Doede,” he whispered, “as does my sister.”

He looked sad, so sad that Lysander’s heart ached for him. He suddenly saw Sef for who he was, a young man burdened with ruling a country and marrying his sister. Lys inched towards him, wanting to embrace him and kiss him and comfort him-

The front door violently burst open and Lys and Sef jerked to their feet, wine spilling and soaking into the already red carpet. Heroti rushed into the room, looking tense.

“Your highness we have a-“

He didn’t get to finish because he was roughly shoved aside by none other than Estania Harkness. Lysander mother stormed into the room, furious and fully dressed. Behind her rushed Voubren guards, trying to stop her.

“You!” the woman screeched pointing at Sef, “How _dare_ you kidnap my son?!”

“Mother,” immediately sober, Lysander rushed to her, “Mother please-“

“And you!” the woman turned on him, nostrils fuming, “you’re in here with him and doing what?!” her eyes took in the empty dinner plates and the goblets of wine by the fire, “Sinning!” she exploded, and struck Lysander across the face. He barely felt it but the impact made him stumble back.

Immediately the guards had Estania up against the wall, spears pointed at her. Sef approached her, wrath burning in his eyes and a knife in his hand.

“Don’t you dare ever touch him again,” he growled. Lys quickly stood between the King and Estania.

“Stop,” he hissed at Sef, “That is my _mother.”_

“Lysander what is the meaning of this?!” Estania wailed and Lys turned to look at her, “You have allowed yourself to be tempted by sin! Have I lost you completely, have you given into the clutches of that monster?!”

“No!” Lysander promised, “Mother, of course not-“

“You are _fraternizing_ with the enemy! Do you plan to marry him, to bed him?!”

“No, I w-wouldn’t-“

“You disgust me!” Estania spat, “You disgust your father’s ghost, your poor father!”

“Enough,” Sef snapped, “Heroti take the Lady back to the Castle.”

“Oh no!” Estania growled, “I will not leave my son in your dirty hands!”

“Fine,” Sef turned away, “Take Lord Lysander back too.”

For a moment, just a moment, Lys was torn. Then the guards lowered their spears and he walked to stand next to his mother. How quickly reality had rushed in, how foolishly Lysander had fallen for a fantasy and forgotten who he was. He felt shame in his stomach now, shame at his mother seeing the real him.

Heroti got Lysander, Estania and the guards out, leaving only two at the front door. Dreadful silence befell the dining room and Sef looked sadly at the wine stains by the fireplace. His heart ached.

He had thought Lysander was the most powerful man in Wildeshell, had been taken by the way he had ruled and led his armies in battle. Tonight he had witnessed a giggling boy and a terrified child. And yet it made Sef love Lys no less. If anything his vulnerability made Sef ache to know him more, to protect and love him. He hadn’t lied before, Lysander was absolutely perfect. Still, Sef felt that they had taken a step forward tonight and two steps back – he was beginning to believe Lys would always choose Wildeshell first, and time was running out.

**Very, very far away. Winter.**

**Tekosh Wall, Baijin Patch, Tekoshi.**

**The Mairin Empire.**

****

The days dragged on endlessly, and Miko felt more and more isolated each day. The hallways of the Wall were either too quiet or filled with the excited chatter of the new, young recruits from whom Miko felt separated. His days were long and filled with hard work that no longer brought any pleasure; the boy yearned to write a letter to Aki and Reno and ask them how they were but he didn’t know the address of their employer. He felt so alone in the world.

To make matters worse the investigation into Tomoya’s disappearance was becoming more intense with Lord Kage demanding an explanation as to what took place in his house and why the culprit hadn’t been hanged yet. Many times Miko had been called by the High Guardians and questioned about his friend’s escape, but he manage to play the clueless fool, pretending he knew nothing. He didn’t know how long he’d manage to keep up the facade though and he was a suspect since he had been best friends with Tomoya. Without Aki and Reno there, Miko was scared he’d misstep, tell a lie wrong and be found out.

Everything was made worse by the long, tiring patrols Miko now had to do on the East Wall with Keito fucking Shingatasha of all people.

“You’re late, bug,” the high-born man scoffed down at Miko as the boy climbed up the ladder to the battlements on the tenth day of their punishment together. Where originally Keito filled the hours with tormenting and taunting Miko by now he had tired and turned to old, half-arsed insults.

“My cleaning duty ran over,” Miko replied, stepping up next to the taller Guardian. The moment he did a gust of freezing wind hit him in the face. “Ay!” Miko cried out and turned his back to the frozen Empty Land, hugging himself, teeth clattering.

Keito smirked, poised and seemingly unaffected by the cold, an expensive black fur draped over his uniform, “The whole point of patrolling is that you _watch,_ Ondera.”

“Mhmm, I’ll watch the other side,” Miko said and walked across the width of the Wall. It only took him thirty seconds to get to the other side since it wasn’t very wide. Cold winter wind snuck under his collar and ratty old fur, and he shivered as he looked out at Tekoshi.

The Wall separated two very different worlds; one was ice and sand and emptiness interrupted only by snow-covered, half-eaten dead bodies and the other was an endless expanse of lights of the city Miko was protecting, stretched towards the horizon and many, many feet down below. From this height it looked as if stars had crumbled from the sky and landed on earth.

“Oi!” Keito wasn’t pleased at being left alone, “Come back here! There’s nothing to watch on that side!”

Begrudgingly Miko trekked back to Keito and stood next to him, shoving his chin into his chest. His arrows were at his back, bow slung over his shoulder. Despite the darkness of the night the torches that had been left burning on the ground provided enough light to see some feet ahead of the Wall.

Snow started to lazily fall from the sky and Miko found it bizarre that only a few days walk away was the always-summer of the Shairin Empire. Geographers had explained that it was because the two Empires were on either side of some kind of line that made weather patterns so drastically different, but Miko never paid much attention in class and barely even passed Guardian training.

“You’re awful quiet today,” Keito glanced over at his rival. Miko blinked and looked up at the sky, snow dusting his dark hair.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, distracted.

Kei didn’t like that the boy wasn’t paying attention to him, “Where did you get your fur, a goat your family killed twenty years ago?”

Miko glanced at him, “That was a terrible insult.”

“Shut up,” Keito gritted his teeth. Miko exhaled an icy breath and hugged himself tighter but it didn’t keep out the cold. They’d have to stand here for the next eight hours. The thought made Miko want to cry.

Kei kept watching the other boy instead of paying attention to the ground below, but he doubted anybody would try and attack the wall in these freezing temperatures. There was something about seeing Miko’s body trembling that made Keito feel guilty.

“Hey,” he cleared his throat and said it all the way he had practiced for the past few days alone in bed. It was time to bury the hatchet...at least partially, “I’m sorry for attacking you that time.”

Miko blinked in surprise, “S-Sorry can you say that again?”

“Oh fuck off,” Keito rolled his eyes grumpily, “You best apologise too.”

Miko’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, “Why are you being nice?”

“I-I’m not!” Keito spluttered, glad that it was cold enough to excuse the redness of his face, “I’m just...you have no friends left and I feel sorry for you!” he said quickly, and then immediately regretted his words. His aim wasn’t to hurt Miko and yet he seemed to do so every time and it was so _frustrating._

But Miko just smiled, “Didn’t know you had a heart Shingatasha.”

“Everyone has a heart,” Kei grumbled, “You’d die without one, idiot.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Miko huffed out a laugh, teeth clattering. Keito looked at him sideways.

“You really need a better coat.”

“Like I can afford one,” Miko sighed, “I just wish someone would hire me so I could get a better wage.”

“Who’d want a little bug like you?”

“Mhmm, you’re not wrong,” Miko sighed. Keito clenched his hands into fists at his sides. He didn’t like how sad Miko sounded when he said that; Kei was allowed to bully him, but Miko was always supposed to be happy..., “Aren’t you going to leave soon?” the boy asked.

“Huh?” Keito dragged his eyes away from the boy’s long eyelashes and the snow in his hair.

“You’re a pretty decent Guardian, isn’t someone going to hire you or aren’t you going to return home?”

Keito’s mind drifted to the pile of letters building up under his bed; some from his father, urging him to return to his family’s manor, and others from possible employers, all eager to have a Shingatasha Guardian. And yet Kei was still here.

“Yeah, maybe,” he muttered. _If I leave he’ll have nobody._ The thought made Keito uncomfortable so he reverted back to familiar territory, trying to get the upper hand. He was always trying to get an upper hand on Miko, even though Miko was the least dominant or threatening person. Simply his existence threw Kei off his axis, “So I heard you got called in for another questioning this morning.”

Miko tensed visibly forgetting the cold for a second, “Y-Yeah, and?”

“Did they figure out it was you yet?”

Miko whirled on Keito, “Figured out it was me what?” he squeaked.

“That helped Itoe escape,” Keito laughed, “I mean it’s really fucking obvious it was you. Or it was you and Yugutazu and Ue. Actually, I doubt you could’ve done it alone, you’re too stupid.”

“Don’t you dare talk about Reno and Aki!” Miko barked, and Kei was surprised to see genuine anger and agitation in his eyes, “I-It wasn’t...I don’t know who it was but it definitely wasn’t us!”

Keito took a step towards Miko. He hadn’t been sure but seeing how flustered the boy was getting made it clear that it definitely had been Miko. Keito had to admit that he was impressed that he pulled it off, he’d never tell anyone though, he liked teasing and bullying Miko but he didn’t want to see his body hanging over the wall. Of course Miko didn’t need to know that.

“I know it was you,” Kei grinned, glad to have power over Miko for _once,_ “and I bet the High Guardians know it too, they just need evidence.”

In a wild panic Miko swung for Keito, hitting him in the neck. The man stumbled sideways but Miko was too weak to do any damage and he just managed to piss his bully off. Kei rushed him, shoving Miko up against the battlements in a fit of rage. The edge of the brick pushed against the small of Miko’s back and the boy felt himself begin to topple backwards.

Panic seized him and it reflected in Keito’s eyes as the man quickly hauled Miko back by his shirt. Miko fell against him and they remained that close, breathing hard, faces inches apart. Everything had happened so fast.

Keito opened his mouth to begin insulting Miko but the boy’s eyes fluttered to his lips, and the words died away on Kei’s tongue. His mouth dried out suddenly and heart began to pound. Miko was painfully aware of how little distance there was between them, that his and Keito’s noses were almost brushing. He could feel the taller man’s breath against his own lips and it made him shiver. Keito still had a hand twisted in Miko’s fur, clutching it as if scared the small boy would fall otherwise.

“Get off,” Miko whispered faintly, and Kei ignored him.

He was confused and yet couldn’t bring himself to let go of Miko, taking in the boy’s features. He was so fucking pretty, and it really pissed Kei off, it always had. Nobody _that_ pretty should be a Guardian; with his plump, pink lips and little upturned nose and long eyelashes and big, dark eyes and messy overgrown black hair Miko looked like he belonged in a palace somewhere, being fed pomegranate and wearing silk. And yet...

Miko couldn’t take how fucking close they were. He leaned in and painfully smashed his lips against Keito’s. It broke whatever spell had been cast over them and they sprung apart, wiping their mouths, hearts beating wildly.

“What the _fuck_ Ondera?!” Keito screamed, “What the _fuck?!”_

“I told you to get off!” Miko spluttered, furiously rubbing his sleeve against his lips, cheeks flushed.

“You’re fucking disgusting!” Kei yelled at him, heart beating loudly.

“Calm down,” Miko snapped, “I only did it to piss you off. It’s n-not like I’d ever want to...,” he trailed off, blushing adorably.

“Whatever,” Keito growled, and suddenly he wanted to hurt Miko badly, to see his face twisted in rage that would make Kei forget his pounding heart, “The High Guardians will find out it was you who let Itoe out. Your precious little best friend is probably dead by now, and good, because he’s a fucking murderer!”

“He’s a better man than you could ever be,” Miko told him, voice icy and stormed to the other side of the Wall. It was not the reaction Keito wanted, and seeing Miko’s shivering back so far away from him made him feel weirdly hollow.

He turned to look down at the ground stretched far below him and his mind drifted to what just happened. Slowly he calmed down, and regret filled him. He always managed to screw it up. For the next eight hours he tried to convince himself that it wasn’t a real kiss.


	14. The Sea's Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHHH I'm so sorry about the really slow updates !!!!  
> I'm gonna try harder  
> thankyou all so much for the support

**The next morning, in the bitter cold winter.**

**Cervantes, Adanard, Beavnird.**

**The North Islands.**

****

What little sleep Callian got came in short bursts and were full of disjointed images of darkness and pain. He spent most of the night sitting up in his bed with his wildcats trying to comfort him and waiting for the sun to rise. When the sky finally began to grey the druid left the warm confines of his hut and made for the Dwen mountains rising above the forest. He couldn’t bear how silent the village was, and knew it would continue to remain hauntingly tense until the warriors returned.

The climb that morning proved perilous as in the freezing temperatures the snow had iced over and many of the rocks became slippery. Cal had to clutch onto his staff as he walked to avoid falling over the edge of the more narrow paths that hugged the mountains.

By the time he got as far up as he dared the snow had reached his knees and the world around him was grey – his breath came out laboured and turned white in front of his face. The sun had risen and yet it was obscured by heavy clouds that hung in the sky. Standing above the tips of the snow-covered trees the landscape looked like a charred, twisted, ugly thing devoid of all colour. Even the birds refused to sing, leaving the world eerily silent and Callian alone with the wind and the sound of his wildcats as they hunted through the forest with no luck. It seemed the animals had all gone into hiding – perhaps they too could sense the dread that refused to leave Callian’s chest.

Many times Maganna had brought him and Orena up here, onto the Arta mountain, so they could read the stars or look at track marks of animals or pick bizarre plants that they’d make into potions later. Now Cal found himself alone here, save for his spirit guardians, and the sharp slopes and dangerous pathways made him anxious – he was a child of the sea and had no business being up so high. Still, he pressed on until his clothes were soaked and he was shaking badly; only then did he stop and look out at the world around him.

He felt he had asked Sere too much, had begged her for guidance while standing in the sea that was now a silver sheet below him. The air smelled like salt, reminding Cal of his goddess, but she was not the only one the Dreiyards worshiped.

The druid sank to his knees in the snow, ignoring the cold that pierced his skin.

“Anxo,” he breathed, addressing Sere’s angelic lover who supposedly resided in the sky, unable to reunite with his mermaid love, “Please. I don’t know what’s happening but something is going to go terribly wrong. I...,” Cal trembled, overcome with emotion. Never before had he felt such intense fear, and it wasn’t for himself, “Please protect my people, watch over them. Please-,” Roan’s face flashed in his mind, grinning. And then he saw the man again, eyes sad as he stepped away from Cal on the beach and walked up the hill to his friend. _What if that was the last time I saw him?_ Callian felt nauseous and pressed his forehead against the snow. He had always thought that if Roan died in battle at least Cal would be free from debating whether the man meant what he said or whether it was an elaborate prank. Now he truly feared that he might never see the future chief again, “Please,” he squeezed his eyes shut and felt a warm tear slide down his cheek and drip into the snow. He sniffled, “ _Please,”_ his word came out as a sob. Cal didn’t want to be alone, he didn’t want Roan to stop pestering him every day, to stop _caring._ Roan was the only one that noticed him, even if it wasn’t real..., “Just bring him back,” the druid whispered, “If you bring him back I’ll be a good druid, I promise, I’ll do everything r-right, I’ll l-let him have what he wants, consequences be damned. I-I just...,” he pulled himself up into a sitting position and blinked his tears away, “I just can’t lose him and Maganna, not right now, not together. I don’t want to be alone again,” he ended in a pathetic whisper.

Callian leaned heavily up against the mountain and closed his eyes, ignoring the cold seeping into his bones through his drenched clothing. Up here, away from the hubbub of everyday life, it was easier to come to terms with the feelings he had been trying to drown out for the past months. Somewhere along the way the attention and affection Roan bestowed upon him had become something Cal looked forward to. Apart from Orena and Maganna and Aeth the blond was the only one who saw Cal as something more than just a druid. Even if he just saw him as a conquest, it made Callian desperate not to lose him, not to lose his warm smiles and aggressive embraces. He had wanted to be strong and not fall for the man he knew would break his heart, but it appeared that that wouldn’t happen.

Silently he vowed to tell his feelings to Roan as long as the man came back. If he came back it would all be fine; even if they only shared a bed for a night it would be something Cal could treasure and remember when he finally left the village and lived his life in solitude somewhere far away.

But Callian knew it wasn’t as easy as praying; the gods of the Northerners were ancient and demanding, and he’d have to perform some rituals in order to appease them. With a heavy heart, Callian picked himself up, whistled at his wildcats and headed back down the way he came.

By the time the sun had begun to set Callian was exhausted. He had sacrificed a deer in front of the non-fighters of the village, painting its flanks with blue paint before slitting its throat and draining its blood, offering its life up to Anxo. If there was a Beau or Odelian prisoner in the village as there sometimes was he would’ve sacrificed them, but alas it was only the Dreiyards.

Orena helped him set up a huge pyre in the centre of the village and they poured the deer’s blood into the flames, which flared up blue. They had to keep the fire going until the warriors returned safely. With blue paint Orena and Cal then drew lines from the pyre and down the path the warriors had used to leave for battle – it was to show them which way was home and guide them back safely.

When night fell Cal walked to the edge of the sea, this time alone. He had made a sacrifice to Anxo, but he also had to beg Sere one more time. With anxiety he watched the stars above him for the sky had cleared some hours before. In the light of the moon above him he stripped naked. Thankfully it was freezing cold and nobody wanted to come to the beach.

Callian wadded in alone, hissing at how icy the waves were. As he submerged himself further and further his teeth began to clatter and he felt his limbs going numb but he pressed on, determined to get some sort of sign from Sere. The moon reflected off his pointed shoulders and the chunks of ice floating nearby. Callian went in further, the water climbed up his chest, his shoulders, his neck. Finally, with a deep breath, the boy went under completely.

He was no longer the scared child that had to be dunked under, the sea did not scare him. The moment the water surrounded him the cold disappeared and he felt a peace within him. He floated out further into the depths, the current caressing him gently as if he was being held by a mother.

When he opened his eyes he saw a faint blue glow, far away. Warmth filled him and despite the fact that everything was blurry he knew it was a sign from Sere, that she was telling him that she had heard his prayers. For the first time in hours Cal’s muscles relaxed and he felt that horrible feeling of dread disappear from his gut, replaced by comfort. The sea was comforting him.

A hand jerked him up from the water and as Cal broke through the waves oxygen filled his lungs. Only then he realised he had been silently, peacefully drowning.

“You idiot!” Aeth shouted as Callian spluttered, gripping onto his huge friend as the bard dragged him back towards the shallows. The cold was back, piercing through Cal’s naked skin and making him gasp helplessly as he gulped down winter air, “What the fuck were you doing?!” Aeth demanded, pulling his friend out onto the snowy rocks of the beach.

Cal was shaking uncontrollably, “P-Praying.”

“For what?!” Aeth shouted, “Death?!”

He was soaking wet and shivering, though his face was flushed with anger.

“W-What a-are you d-d-d-oing here?” Callian asked, teeth clattering as he slung an arm over his waist, embarrassed to be so bare in front of his friend, though Aeth clearly didn’t care. He threw the dry clothes Cal had left folded on the big rock at his head.

“I’m back in the village b-because a-all the fighters left!” the bard snapped, fighting tremors as the icy air pierced his wet clothing, “O-Orena s-said you were down there a-and I-I saw your stupid a-ass go into the water!”

“O-Oh,” Cal hurriedly shoved on his clothes, though it did little to warm him. Distractedly he wondered whether the path he and Orena had painted had brought Aeth here.

“Come on,” the bard stomped from foot to foot, “I’m going to fucking freeze to death.”

They practically ran back into the village, and Cal moaned at the warmth the huge pyre emanated as they passed it. Orena, who was tending to it, looked at the two boys in puzzlement as they shot past, heading for Callian’s hut. They exploded inside and immediately Cal jerked his hand towards the dead fireplace, which roared to life so violently it woke Ogma who had been sleeping nearby, making him jump.

“ _Fuck,”_ Aeth shoved the front door closed and started tugging off his sopping clothing, “How many more times do I have to save you?”

Callian stared at the flames crackling in the fireplace. The heat filled the room and yet the druid remained terribly cold.

Aeth paused halfway through pulling off one wet boot, noticing the distant expression on his best friend’s face, “Cal?” he asked.

Cal burst into tears.

A puzzled look appeared on Aeth’s face since he hadn’t seen Callian cry for some years. Roan had teased him for being a cry-baby when they were younger and Cal made a point of always putting up a strong front to prove him wrong.

“What is it?” Aeth asked, “What happened?” Was Maganna dead? Had Orena been chosen as the next Head Druid during his short absence? Questions stewed in Aeth’s mind. He knew something was wrong when he had arrived an hour before and the village had been eerily quiet, but Cal’s tears suggested that it was worse than Aeth expected.

“T-The w-warriors t-they...,” Cal wiped his eyes on his wet sleeve as his voice trembled terribly. He felt like a child for crying and yet seemed unable to stop, “T-They’re...I-I know something bad is going to happen, I have this _feeling...”_

Aeth sagged in relief and cracked an awkward smile, not understanding his best friend’s panic, “Cal, that’s what Dreiyards do. They drink and shag and go into battles. It’ll be fine.”

“It won’t!” Callian shouted suddenly, the flames in his fireplace flaring up and making Aeth flinch. The conviction and hurt in the druid’s green eyes made Aeth tense. He swallowed, and decided to make an educated guess that could either fuel the fire or help him help Cal.

“Is this about Roan?”

Callian’s eyelids fluttered and his hands clenched into fists, “I...,” he looked away as more tears raced down his flushed cheeks. He bit his lip in order to try to keep a sob back but the ugly sound bubbled out of him anyway. His wildcats meowed at him from the floor, rubbing themselves against his legs.

“It is, isn’t it?” Aeth asked gently and took a step towards his friend, “You’re scared he won’t come back.”

Having somebody else say it out loud made Cal feel as if his heart had been ripped from his chest. He hugged himself and made a whiny, whimpery noise like a hurt animal as emotions flooded over him. He didn’t have to say anything for Aeth to know he was right and now didn’t know what to do - Cal didn’t like physical contact, and yet the big bard wanted desperately to comfort him.

He placed his hands on the druid’s thin shoulders, and the moment he did Callian threw himself into his arms, hugging himself fiercely to Aeth’s chest and sobbing freely against it. When Aeth got over his shock at such an intense reaction he quickly enveloped his friend in his arms and squeezed him gently.

It felt good to be held, and Cal remembered the embraces he had received in the days before Roan left, how it had felt to be completely swallowed by the man’s body. Aeth was tall and broad and big, like Roan, but softer and rounder. When Cal closed his eyes he imagined it was Roan holding him, even though the smell was all wrong.

“Aeth I-I’m a m-m-mess,” Callian sobbed.

“It’s alright,” the bard assured him, “He’s the best warrior in Cervantes, he’ll come back.”

**The next night, across the sea.**

**Castle Darmont, Crasbury, Wildeshell.**

**Kingdom of Beauralt.**

****

_There was a mouth against his, a body pressed up against him, fitting perfectly together. And hands, insistent, demanding hands that dragged over his naked skin._

_“Don’t,” Lysander whispered, trying to push the man on top of him off._

_Sef’s warm brown eyes looked down at him, “It’s alright,” he said gently._

_“No, it’s not,” Lys shook his head._

_Then suddenly they were standing on a huge, circular balcony the colour of sand, looking out at the sun-filled landscape before them. Lys saw golden houses and curving bright blue rivers and mountains in the distance, and he heard music and the sound of celebration and happiness. Sef was at his side with a golden crown on his head, his dark chest bare, a smile on his face. Lys had lost the heavy furs he wore, and when he looked down he saw he was also shirtless and wearing only a golden cloth around his waist. He was warm._

_“Is this Voubrenia?” Lys breathed._

_“Yes,” Sef took his hand, “Our home.”_

_“Our?” Lys asked, puzzled. He looked out at the kingdom below him, at the palm trees shifting in the warm summer breeze. He felt relieved. Had he dreamt up that horrid cold castle and his mother’s disgusted sneer? Was this paradise where he had been all along?_

_Sef was back on top of him on the bed, showering his face with kisses, “It’s alright now, husband.”_

“Lord Protector!” Archbishop Rochon snapped for the fourth time, finally jerking Lysander out of his daydream. The Lord blinked at all his Masters gathered around the well in the chapel, and blushed, realising they were all staring and that once again he had been remembering the dream that plagued his every night and nap the past two days since he had returned from Sef’s countryside manor.

The King himself hadn’t returned to the Castle, remaining instead at that manor and although the guards at all the entrances and exits had doubled and the parties had ceased, Lysander had managed to organise a meeting of the Council during Sef’s absence under the pretence of prayer.

“This is a matter of upmost emergency,” the Archbishop’s hooked nose flared as he gazed down at the Lord, tall even when sat down, “We need your attention.”

“Yes,” Lys cleared his throat awkwardly, hands clenching on the cool stone of the well, “Of course. My apologies.”

He glanced up at met Baralthol’s gaze, but the General hastily looked away. They hadn’t spoken since he had drunkenly kissed Lys.

“Here,” Lord Patran’s white hair and beard looked even more wild and unkept since the occupation. The secretary had dark circles under his eyes and looked like he hadn’t slept since the Voubren arrived. He hastily and somewhat clumsily produced a letter from between the folds of his cloak, holding it out to Lysander with trembling, age-spot speckled hands.

Lysander took the letter from him, stomach dropping when he saw the broken purple seal of King Ormond on the envelope.

“I thought King Sef stopped all of our letters,” Lys said faintly, turning the paper in his gloved hands, afraid to open it.

“He did, my Lord,” Lord Patran said gruffly, “but he seems more interested in you than in enforcing his rules. I have managed to send your last letter, and acquire this one.”

“Thank you, Lord Patran,” Lysander said. He exhaled. With the silence of the castle devoid of parties and all of his Masters gathered around him Lys could almost fool himself into believing everything was back to normal. But alas, they still had to meet in the chapel in secret.

The Lord Protector cleared his throat, wanting to postpone reading the King’s response as long as possible, “What are the news in Wildeshell?” he asked, ashamed that he had spent his time sleeping, fantasising about ungodly things and frolicking with the enemy, leaving his kingdom to its own devices.

“The castle is at ease, my Lord,” Lord Rassel said, smiling warmly at Lys. The presence of the Lord Chancellor eased some of Lys’ nerves, and having him here reminded him that not everything was lost, “The Lords and Ladies are safe and fed, nobody is being harmed. The Voubren have proved surprisingly respectful.”

“Aye,” Lord Bronyan, the Master of the Household, muttered. The old man clearly had not slept off last night’s liquor yet and appeared somewhat intoxicated. The huge parties might have stopped but Bronyan was clearly still very invested with the Voubren way of life, his glasses askew and doublet buttoned up unevenly – the celebrations continued every night in his chambers.

“Respectful? Don’t make me laugh,” the Archbishop said in distaste, his lip-less mouth pulled back into a sneer, “Those heretics have done nothing but fill this castle with sin since they have arrived; copulating outside of marriage, copulating in _public,_ copulating with the same sex!” he scoffed in disgust and Lys’ hands clenched into tighter fists, “even some of our own have joined into their blasphemous actions, and they will be punished when this farce is over! Perhaps the Voubren aren’t harming us physically but they are destroying our souls!”

“Enough with the dramatics,” Lord Sullian rolled his eyes. The young man looked vaguely bored as if the talk of the Voubren wasn’t invigorating enough to him. Lys gladly accepted him as an alternative to Rochon’s hateful tirade.

“Lord Sullian, what of the castle coffers? Winter is upon us, do we have enough to feed the castle?”

“Of course,” Sullian replied, “we have barely paid for anything in the past month; the delegation, as soul destroying as they are,” he looked slyly at the Archbishop, who bristled, “have paid for all supplies. They are distributing grain to the people, I hear, and have brought much food from their own kingdom. The coffers are full.”

 _Sef being here is helping,_ Lys realised, not for the first time, however now he didn’t feel that helpless heartbreak he did during the masquerade. To know that Sef wasn’t the monster his mother had tried to convince him he was on the ride back to the Castle two days ago was helpful. No matter how hard Lys tried he couldn’t bring himself to hate Sef – now when he thought of the man he no longer saw him as a distant, cold and unpredictable figure sitting on his throne but instead as a young man curled up by a fireplace with a glass of wine, grinning like a child.

“Lord Baralthol, what of the Voubren fleet?” Lys asked. His friend refused to meet his eyes.

“Still anchored in the northern part of Vermille Bay and blocking the Wind Straits, my Lord.”

“Good,” Lys exhaled, “at least the Dreiyards have ceased their raids.”

“It’s winter,” Lord Rassel reminded him, “they have retreated to the North Islands until the snow melts.”

“Enough!” Archbishop Rochon yelled suddenly, making everyone flinch. Lys glanced anxiously at the chapel door but the Voubren guards outside either didn’t hear or didn’t care for they didn’t rush in, “Let us focus on the matter at hand, King Ormond’s response to our dire situation! The King will surely send his armies to help us battle these heretics!”

Lysander slipped the paper out of the envelope, not looking at Patran. The secretary had read it already and Lys didn’t want to know from his expression what King Ormond’s final decision was.

His eyes danced over the words. The Masters, minus Patran, watched the Lord with bated breath.

Lysander finished reading and stood up a little straighter, his face collected and unreadable. He carefully folded the letter and slid it back into its envelope.

“He won’t be sending an army.”

“What?!” the Archbishop exploded.

“Why?!” Baralthol snapped back to his normal self, “We can’t deal with this alone!”

“Who will he be sending then?” even Lord Sullian was losing his cool.

“Nobody,” Lysander cleared his throat, “he is busy with war in the Shairin Empire and has to deal with Dreiyard incursions. He doesn’t have men to spare.”

“That is bullshit!” Baralthol roared, face bright with fury, “The Dreiyards won’t be raiding until spring and he can easily stop that damned religous war in the Empire-“

“Mind your tongue,” Rochon hissed.

“Oh fuck off,” Baralthol snapped, “We’re all fucked.”

“Let’s all calm down,” Lord Rassel started, “I’m sure there is another way-“

“There isn’t,” Lysander said quietly, and then let out a small, bitter, slightly hysterical laugh. He threw the letter across the well, not caring if it fell in. Rassel caught it, “read it for yourself.”

The Lord Chancellor did so hurriedly and his eyes widened in disbelief.

“For fuck’s sake,” Sullian snapped, “can you all stop being so secretive and tell us what’s in the damned letter.”

“King Ormond has declared Wildeshell an independent state from the rest of Beauralt,” Lord Patran spoke up, head hung low, “and Lord Lysander is now the King of it.”

“W-What?” Baralthol whispered as the Archbishop paled.

“That is correct,” Rassel looked shaken, clutching the letter, “Beauralt will no longer send us men, supplies or heed our council.”

“What like the Wild Lands?!” Baralthol gaped.

“Aye,” Rassel nodded, “We are alone.”

“We are _doomed,”_ Bronyan corrected, pulling his glasses off and attempting to massage his headache away, “We need to organise a coronation.”

“No, we don’t,” Lysander said swiftly. He did not want to be Lord Protector and he _definitely_ didn’t want to be King. He had just destroyed Wildeshell. Without the protection of the crown the weak kingdom would fall sooner or later to whomever invaded it first.

“This is ridiculous-,” the Archbishop began.

Lys stepped away from the well. It was all too much, “I need to think,” he said, “I will be retreating to my chambers.”

“But my Lord-,” Baralthol started, “I-I mean your highness-“

“Enough,” Lys gave his friend a faint smile, “enough, Barry. I am no King. What we learnt here today should remain here until I make a decision.”

He exited the chapel and began to walk briskly towards his room, the Voubren guards silently falling in behind him, spears in hand. The sun had just set and the corridors were shadowed and silent save for the sound of the men’s footsteps. It was haunting and Lys could almost hear the echoes of music and laughter that had filled this place for weeks.

There was a surprise waiting for him when he entered the chambers. He froze, allowing the door to swing shut behind him with a loud bang, and stared at the figure sprawled across his bed.

“So,” Sef was smirking, resting on his side and looking very cat-like and relaxed. Around him were the letters he had sent to Lys, the chest they were held in opened by the bed, “You kept these.”

Blood rushed to Lys’ face, “Didn’t your mother teach you it’s rude to go through people’s things?”

“My mother,” Sef sat up, still grinning, “taught me to always get what I want. I want you Lys, and judging from the fact you’ve kept my love letters, you want me too.”

“They’re not love letters!” Lys snapped, walking towards the bed. _Stay strong, stay strong,_ he told himself, trying to prevent his eyes from lingering on Sef’s exposed, muscled chest visible beneath the silk garment around his shoulders. He seemed oblivious to the chill in the room that couldn’t be chased away despite the roaring flames in the fire place, “I kept them as evidence.” Lys began to gather the scattered letters, swallowing down his embarrassment.

“You can’t fool me, my Lord.”

Sef stood up, blocking Lys from his letters. They stood at an equal height, eyes locked. Emotions flared up inside Lys.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Sef said.

“No I haven’t,” the Lord Protector looked away, “I’ve been...busy.”

“With what? Secret Privy Council meetings?” Sef cocked an eyebrow.

“How do you know about that?!” Lys demanded. Sef rolled his eyes,

“Come on, don’t act a fool. This whole place is under my control, I have eyes and ears everywhere. But that’s alright,” he reached out and touched Lys’ face. The man didn’t even flinch, allowing the caress to happen, “I don’t care if you conspire behind my back, as long as you accept my love.”

He leaned in and pressed his lips against Lys’. It was so gentle and loving that a shiver racked up the Lord’s.

He stepped away, expression pained, “Let’s not do this.”

“Why?” Sef frowned, “How much longer are you going to deny your feelings?”

“I am the Lord Protector, I don’t have time for feelings.”

“Save those stupid little lies for your cunt of a mother,” Sef snapped, agitated. He had hoped that tonight he’d glimpse that soft, gentle man that had laughed at his stories by the fire. Instead he just got the politically-correct Lord Protector again.

The King watched Lys’ eyes go icy, “Don’t speak of my mother like that.”

“Oh please,” Sef rolled his eyes, “She’s a cunt and you know it.”

Lys hit him. Open hand – struck Sef right on the left cheek. He had never hit anyone before so it failed to do much except fill Sef’s eyes with shock.

“I’m sorry,” Lysander gasped as his anger evaporated as suddenly as it had appeared, “Oh God, your highness, I didn’t mean-“

Sef grabbed him by his shirt, roughly pulling Lys towards him. The Lord Protector braced himself for the hit but it never came, instead Sef attacked his mouth with a hot, hard, demanding kiss that threw Lys off his axis.

“Don’t!” the Lord shoved Sef away and wiped his mouth, “What did I tell you about kissing me without consent?”

“You _hit_ me,” Sef’s eyes burned with fire.

“A-And I apologise-,” Lys stammered.

“I don’t want you to apologise, I want you to love me back!”

They stood there, looking at each other. Sef was so frustrated he felt like crying – he couldn’t keep doing this. How many more rejections would he take?

“That’s impossible-,” Lys began.

With an angry, animal-like growl Sef grabbed Lys by the shirt again and roughly pushed him onto the bed. The Lord Protector’s eyes widened but before he could comprehend what was happening Sef was on top of him, pining his wrists to the bed.

The King kissed Lys with all the pent up frustration inside him, his anger pushing him past reason. Lys, realising what was happening, began to struggle, yet every time he managed to free his hand, Sef would just pin it back down again. Panic burned in his stomach and he kept his mouth sealed shut as he writhed on the bed, trying to get away from man on top of him. The King bit at Lys’ lips painfully, earning himself a gasp and a mouth now open enough so that he could shove his tongue inside. The kiss was fierce and angry and their teeth clashed and it hurt and Lys couldn’t breathe.

With a burst of strength Lysander kicked Sef off. The man tumbled off the bed and as he hit the carpet reason returned to him. He laid on the ground on his back, catching his breath and staring at the ceiling. Lysander sat up in bed.

“What in God’s name was that?!” he demanded, panting and glaring down at Sef. His lip was bleeding slightly. The King sat up, hair a mess, and looked at Lysander with the biggest, brownest eyes he’d ever seen, making the Lord’s heart jump in his chest – the vulnerability was back, melting Lys’ heart.

“I-If you...,” Sef took a shaky breath and licked his lips nervously, suddenly seeming like an innocent child rather than the aggressive man who had forced himself onto Lys moments ago, “If you don’t want me, then I’ll accept it. But...if there’s a chance, even the _smallest_ chance, that you might love me back- no, not even love. If there is even a small doubt in your mind about this decision, if you just want to _see_ if this could be what you want...,” he looked at Lys pleadingly, “Lysander, all I want is _one_ night. One night with you, where I am free to touch and kiss you to my heart’s content.”

Lys blushed at his forwardness, “M-My Lord, that’s-“

“Please,” Sef said, desperation in his voice. He climbed back to his feet and looked down at Lys, still on the bed, “I need something that I can remember, a part of you I can cherish when I have to return home, when I’m forced to marry my sister.”

He looked so lost, and small all of a sudden. Lys’ heart ached. He wanted to give all of himself to this man, God how he wanted to...

“Lysander,” Sef whispered, looking at him desperately, “Just once.”

Something overcame Lys and in that moment he could no longer deny the King. He stood up and closed the space between them, shocking both of them, and grasped Sef’s face in his hands, crashing their mouths together in a desperate kiss. Sef hadn’t expected it. His knees trembled and his eyes remained wide and open as Lys clumsily licked his way into the other’s mouth.

 _This is really happening,_ the King told himself as his eyes fluttered shut – for once it was Lys giving in to his urges. The dark-skinned man drew Lys in by the waist and opened his mouth, allowing the other man access inside. He clutched the Lord closer, angled his head to better the kiss. He felt light-headed and his heart pounded with joy. He was finally being accepted.

When they broke apart Sef immediately went for Lys’ neck, kissing every inch of the Lord’s exposed skin he could find, licking and sucking and biting, impatiently shoving the man’s furs off his shoulders.

“This is so wrong,” Lys muttered, flushed and aroused as he gripped Sef’s shoulders, not knowing whether he wanted to push him away or pull him closer, “W-We can’t-“

“Shhh, shush, just be quiet,” Sef gasped back, surging upwards to lock their lips together again.

They kissed in a frenzy and when Sef reached for Lys’ doubled and began unlacing it, the Lord didn’t stop him. _To hell with all this,_ he thought, able to only focus on the heat of Sef’s body as the man ripped his own garments off. Thanks to light Voubren clothing he was naked in moments, and his skin seared Lys’ palms everywhere the Lord touched him.

Sef pulled off Lys’ doublet and shirt, tossing them aside carelessly. There was something incredibly frantic about Sef’s movement and subconsciously the King waited for Lys to regain his clarity of mind, to push him away and once again tell him how wrong this was. But Lysander didn’t. His mother, the laws of Beauralt, the damnation he would face from his religion, all left his mind and all he could think about was how much he craved this man in front of him – not only physically; he wanted to know Sef, to peel back his arrogance and sarcasm and confidence and see the vulnerable man beneath that he had caught glimpses of before.

They fell onto the bed in a tangle of naked limps and, to his surprise, Sef found himself beneath Lysander, the Lord pining his wrists down as Sef had done to him earlier. He abandoned Sef’s swollen lips in favour of copying the King’s earlier actions and turning his attention to the man’s neck. Sef was shocked by the sudden dominance that possessed Lysander, but he did not complain as the man’s wet tongue slid along his pulse. Sef melted into the bed with a soft moan, one of his legs sliding up to hook around Lys’ waist and urge him closer. Their lower halves slid together and Sef could feel the Lord’s hardness pressing heavily against his hip.

The room filled with the sound of their harsh breathing, broken only by an occasional gasp and the steady crackling of the wood in the fire-place. The ever-present chill of the stone castle that no fur or quilt had ever kept at bay finally ebbed away and even though Lysander was naked and bare his whole body burned. Kissing Sef was intoxicating, touching him drove the Lord mad. Once he gave in, he gave his all; so long he had stood on the edge of what he was taught was right, and of what he most wanted, and now he had finally fallen. Except it didn’t feel like falling, there was no uncertainty, no fear, there were only the warm arms of Sef, his fingers sliding into Lys’ wavy hair, his muscular legs tightening around his waist as they grinded their naked cocks together.

“What should I-I do?” Lys huffed out as Sef bit at his neck and ear like a feral dog, sending shivers of pleasure wracking down Lysander’s back.

“Ointment,” Sef replied, voice hoarse and deep with anticipation, “Oil, anything you have.”

Lysander pulled back and looked down at his companion with half-lidded eyes. He was red in the face and breathing hard, trying to comprehend what Sef said and at the same time trying to understand who this gorgeous, ethereal, flushed creature beneath him was. Sef’s cool confidence had given way to a lazy sensuality that made Lys hot and hard in all the right places – among the grey pillows and the heavy furs of Lysander’s bed, Sef looked right at home. Lys’ eyes travelled over the King’s dark chest, muscled abdomen, down to his erection, the perfect curve of his cock against his stomach.

Without thinking of what he was doing, Lysander reached down and grasped the member with his hand. Sef hissed and arched into the touch, taken by surprise.

“My Lord-,” he began, and Lysander swiped his thumb over the head of his cock. He had no clue what he was doing and yet enjoyed the way Sef’s eyelashes fluttered involuntary and the gasp that spilled from his lips, “Lysander, we need-“

Lys repeated what he had done before and Sef let out a half-moan, half-chuckle.

“Ah,” he smiled, eyes half closed, “so you’re a tease.”

Lysander frowned, “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean. I also don’t know what we need oil for.”

“Shhhh,” Sef said soothingly, wrapping his fingers around the wrist that held his cock, “Trust me.”

Lysander climbed off of the King and in a daze went to his desk, eyes searching for what Sef required – he spotted a little vial of oil he sometimes used to smooth back his hair if it got too unruly in the mornings perched by his quills. Eagerly he snatched it up and like an aroused teenager climbed back onto the bed.

“Good,” Sef purred when he saw the vial and took it from Lysander’s hand, using his other arm to wrap around the Lord’s waist. In moments he had them flipped over, with Lys looking up at him in bewilderment. The smooth grace of Sef’s action was a stark contrast to Lysander’s uncertain clumsiness.

Sef straddled Lysander, framing him with his thighs, bare and confident. With a mischievous grin he opened the vial of oil and poured a generous amount into his palm. Brief panic rose in the Lord and he tried to sit up.

“Sef-“

“Shush, it’s fine,” Sef forcefully pushed him back, “Let me take care of everything.”

Lys licked his lips anxiously and watched as Sef reached behind himself. The King, who tended to dominate his partners, now found himself in desperate need to feel Lysander inside him. With practice he thrust two of his own slick fingers inside himself and smiled at both the pleasurable sensation as well as the almost comical widening of Lys’ eyes.

“What-,” the Lord sat up, “W-Why...why are you-“

Sef pushed him back down, “Stupid,” he murmured, kissing the side of Lys’ neck before biting on his earlobe, “How else are we going to fit this inside?” he King asked sultrily, his hand sliding down and gripping Lys’ erection.

The Lord gasped, “Sef...”

Hearing his own name said, the formalities of ‘my Lord’ or ‘your Highness’ discarded, made Sef even more excited. He slid down the bed, his fingers still moving inside him, until he was level with Lys’ hard cock. The Lord looked down at him hazily, distracted and unsure of what exactly was happening except that he enjoyed seeing Sef’s dilated pupils and wanted to lick every inch of his body.

Sef on the other hand enjoyed seeing Lys’ squirm. He didn’t want to scare or hurt the man, and so decided that it would be best if all Lysander felt tonight was pleasure. Confidently Sef leaned forward and dragged his tongue up Lys’ hot erection. The Lord Protector threw his head back against the pillows and moaned loudly.

“O-Oh God, what-“

His reactions spurred Sef on and he began to lap at the cock before him like a hungry cat, wetting it until spit and precum ran down his chin. Only then did he take the member into his mouth, swallowing down until he felt Lys’ hair tickle his nose. The Lord’s dick was long, longer than Sef’s though less thick, but Sef had had years of practice of lazily sucking off the guards in his palace when his father was King, and easily took all of it down his throat.

Whereas this was nothing new for Sef, Lys was in a whole new world filled with pleasure. One of his hands gripped the sheets beneath him, the other slid into Sef’s silky black hair. Lysander felt that if he let go of either of those things he would be thrown off the earth and float around in this sea of hot, wet ecstasy for all eternity. He couldn’t speak, the only noises coming from his mouth being breathless pleas and moans of ecstasy. He had only ever timidly touched himself when it was most necessary, and then looked at the evidence of his pleasure on his hand with guilt and resentment. This was completely different – the room around him didn’t feel oppressive, as if there were eyes in the stone watching his every move. _This_ felt incredible; Sef’s shamelessness chased away all of the shame Lys might have had at succumbing so completely to the ministrations of the King. As it was he didn’t give a damn who heard or saw, all he could think about was how heavenly the feeling of Sef’s throat constricting around him was.

“God...,” Lysander gasped, eyes squeezed shut and fingers tightening in his two leverage points as he felt heat crawl through his body, “O-Oh God...,” he choked out.

“Not God,” Sef let Lys’ cock out of his mouth with an obscene pop that made the Lord open his eyes partially, “Just me,” Sef grinned and climbed back up Lys’ body. He had no idea how he looked with his dishevelled hair and wet chin, and Lys could do little else but grip his face fiercely and crash their lips together.

Sef took this moment of distraction to lift himself up in Lys’ lap, reaching behind himself to wrap his still oiled up hand around the other man’s shaft. Lys gasped into the kiss and when he tried to pull away Sef gripped his hair with his free hand, forcing their mouths to remain sealed together, tongues sliding together wetly.

Then he slowly sank down onto Lys’ cock.

He hadn’t been entered in so long, and found the familiar burn so much sweeter than he remembered. His dark eyes focused on Lys’ face, not wanting to miss anything, and the way his eyes widened as he felt Sef’s tight, wet heat envelop him. It was clear he was a virgin and Sef found his breathless, almost whiny gasps endearing.

“O-Oh,” the Lord choked out, fingers digging into Sef’s hips, “Oh _fuck.”_

Sef had never heard him swear and the obscenity sent a shiver up his spine. The King grinned, pleased that he was uncovering this new side of the man he loved and immensely enjoying the feeling of being filled by his cock. He easily took all of Lys inside himself and, focused only on making the other man feel good, he lifted himself partially and then lowered himself back down, Lysander’s wet dick sliding back into place. It felt like he should have always been inside Sef, like they were moulded to fit together perfectly. Never had Sef been more convinced that they were fated for each other than he was in that moment. He went to repeat the movement in order to bring the most pleasure to Lys, but suddenly the Lord Protector shot up into a sitting position, driving his cock further into Sef and making an involuntary moan spill from his mouth.

“My Lord-,” he began breathlessly, panic gripping him at the sudden movement. Did Lys change his mind? Was he going to throw Sef off and spew hateful things at him? Sef couldn’t take that, not now, not when they were...

“Wait,” Lysander whispered hoarsely, drawing Sef in close and pressing his forehead against the King’s. Sef watched him in puzzlement, feeling the man’s hardness twitching inside him. Lys kissed him gently, one hand stroking his cheek, the other resting on the small of his back.

When Sef realised he wasn’t going to be rejected he smiled and wrapped his arms around Lys’ shoulders. He deepened the kiss for a second and then drew back, “What am I waiting for, Lysander?”

Lys looked up at him almost pleadingly and Sef licked the man’s lips teasingly. In this position he had a few inches of advantage over the Lord Protector, allowing him to rake his hands through his hair, which had began to curl because he was sweating slightly. Sef enjoyed eliminating the cool exterior of the Lord, and seeing beneath it the real Lys – vulnerable, unsure, full of desire and finally accepting who he was.

“Me,” Lys replied hoarsely, “We’re waiting for me. If you move too soon I-I will...,” he trailed off, voice trembling.

Sef kissed him passionately, crossing his legs around Lys’ waist so he was properly seated in the man’s lap. As he delved his tongue into Lys’ willingly open mouth he reached down and began to lazily stroke his own erection, shivering at the sparks of heat that raced through him.

Lysander lost himself in the warmth of Sef’s mouth and the heat of his hole. Was this what sin was? The feeling of another being so incredibly close that it was impossible to distinguish where one began and the other ended? Lys couldn’t imagine why this was so wrong when it felt so _good._ His head swam with unanswered questions and endless possibilities as he urged himself not to climax yet – he wanted this to last, forever, if that was possible.

Would life be like this if he joined Sef in Voubrenia? Was it truly that easy to switch this existence of cold and worry and misery and disappointment into a life full of life and love and pleasure and acceptance? Was the only sacrifice Lys had to make was this freezing, snow-covered harsh country that nobody else wanted? It seemed a small price to pay for how sweet Sef’s kisses were.

Slowly the King began moving again, first grinding gently in Lys’ lap and then, when he wasn’t told to stop, bouncing on top of the Lord. The feeling of Lys’ cock penetrating him over and over made Sef’s thighs tremble, and he eagerly drank up every little moan and gasp that came from the Lord’s mouth as he slumped against the pillows, half-open eyes watching Sef, hands hovering over his hips as if he was scared to touch the man.

“It’s alright,” Sef panted out, pressing Lys’ hands down so they were digging into his hips again, “It’s all a-alright.”

He let out a startled moan when a slight shift in position caused Lys’ dick to hit an especially sweet spot inside him and although the King’s movements faltered, they didn’t stop. Lysander watched him, mesmerized, the way his brows furrowed, the way his dark cock bobbed in front of him obscenely, the sweat running down Sef’s muscled chest. Every time he slid back into the delicious warmth of the other man’s body he felt the walls clench around him and it was driving him crazy. He wanted this moment to last forever and yet he knew it would be over soon.

“S-Sef,” Lysander gasped, and reached up towards his face. Sef grabbed his hand and pulled it to his mouth, sucking one of Lys’ fingers into his mouth while looking at him through his thick eyelashes. Lys shuddered in pleasure. Everything about the King was obscene – he wantonly and selfishly took what he wanted, consequences be damned and Lysander admired him for it. If this one moment where Lys finally let go was how free Sef felt all the time then it was envy worthy.

Seeing the way Lys’ eyes had darkened almost to black at his actions made Sef ride him harder. They both moaned.

“S-Sef,” Lys’ gasped, his hand curling into a fist in Sef’s grip, “F-Fuck...G-God...I won’t last...”

“It’s alright,” Sef panted.

“Y-You need to g-get off,” Lys stammered, hips stuttering upwards to meet Sef’s movements.

“No I don’t,” Sef growled and hauled Lys up for a furious kiss. Lys whined, shuddered and came inside the King.

Sef’s hand on his cock sped up and he moaned into Lys’ mouth as the man shivered in the aftershock of his orgasm. The thought that the Lord’s seed was inside Sef drove him into a frenzy and he furiously jerked at his own erection, coming not even a full minute after Lysander, splattering both their stomachs with milky come.

“Gods,” Sef slumped against Lys, who in turn fell back onto the bed, panting, eyes closed and arm still loosely wrapped around the other’s waist.

Carefully Sef climbed off him, recovering faster than the Lord. He stood from the bed quickly and felt the evidence of the other man’s pleasure trickle down his thighs. Carelessly he wiped his buttocks and legs on the closest garment he could find. When he looked back at the bed Lysander was watching him with sleep, half-open eyes. There was a soft, fond smile on his lips that Sef hadn’t expected and that made his heart soar in his chest.

He climbed back onto the bed and wiped Lysander clean. Neither of them said anything but as Sef performed his task, Lys reached up and caressed his cheek, looking at Sef as if he was the most beautiful thing in the world.

Sef didn’t know what he expected – the man turning away from him and sleeping on his side of the bed, contemplating what he had just done? Maybe he had expected shouting, or regret, or questions or anger. He hadn’t expected this; soft touches and gentle smiles full of content.

 _This is real,_ Sef had to tell himself as he dropped the soiled shirt he was using to wipe Lys’ chest on the floor, _this is real._ Weeks of hard work and courting had paid off and Lysander was finally his, and only his.

The King kissed Lysander lovingly on the mouth and then laid down next to him, pulling the furs over their naked, cooling bodies.

“May I stay here tonight, my Lord?” Sef asked, half teasing. Lys turned on his side and draped an arm around his naked waist under the furs.

“You can stay as long as you’d like,” he responded softly, drunk on euphoria. He looked younger with his dishevelled hair and pink blush, more boy-ish. Sef couldn’t look away from him, scared the man would disappear if he did.

Lysander kissed Sef’s still-warm shoulder and waited for the flood of regret, for clarity of mind. It never came. His limbs tingled and felt as if they were made of wool and he wanted nothing except water and to remain tangled up in Sef’s embrace. The desire to remain in the heat of the other man’s arms won, and Lys abandoned his craving for liquid in order to sleepily kiss Sef’s mouth. The King stroked the Lord’s damp curls.

“See?” he murmured, eyes soft and full of joy. They crinkled at the corners when he smiled, “It could always be like this.”

The grey light of dawn found Sef and Lys still tangled up in each other as it slipped in through the iced-over windows and into the cool bedroom. In the night Sef had kicked aside the furs and now laid spread out and naked and shameless on the bed, face in the pillows, ass on show, arm thrown across Lys’ waist, oblivious to the freezing temperatures in the air. His breathing was broken up every so often by a snore. Lys looked more peaceful, curled up next to him, swollen lips slightly parted as he breathed, the furs wrapped tightly around his body.  

It was he who woke first, blinking blearily at the depressed light that entered his chambers. The fire had gone out in the night and now the Lord snuggled burrowed himself deeper under his furs, before his eyes landed on Sef, asleep at his side.

Warmth and love flooded his heart and he smiled, remembering last night’s events. He reached out his hand-

Then reality settled in, heavy and cold and unforgiving, and Lys’ smile melted away, replaced by terror at last night’s events. His hand dropped.

 _What have I done?_ the Lord sat up abruptly, and he was ashamed and mortified at his own naked body, covered in marks and kisses as evidence of last night’s sins. His stomach churned. How would he face his mother? How would he face his Masters, his people?

Sef murmured something in his sleep and Lys slid the man’s arm off of him and got out of bed. He couldn’t bear to look at the King’s naked body because every time he did he felt nauseous with guilt. He had betrayed his people and his God and _literally_ slept with the enemy.

He dressed hurriedly and haphazardly, pulling on the warmest and thickest clothes to conceal the line of bruises that Sef had lovingly kissed into his neck the night before. The moment his fur was strapped to his shoulders he rushed out of the room, not sparing Sef a second glance.

The Voubren guards outside his room followed him like two shadows as he hurried down the empty, sleepy corridors of his castle, and Lys barely noticed them. He was lost in his own mind, in memories from the previous night and the fear of their consequences. People in Beauralt were executed for copulating with the same sex – would the same fate await him, despite his high rank? No...Wildeshell was a solitary state now, no longer part of the Kingdom, it was up to Lys to change those laws...but how? How could he face his mother and his Masters and tell them he had become the very thing they had despised?! No, not become, he had always been like this, and yet he had finally given into his cravings like some mythical vampyre from children’s stories...

The Lord Protector burst into the empty chapel. The guards, as always, did not follow him in and the Lord collapsed by the well alone, tears brimming in his eyes. Oppressive silence surrounded him, the stained-glass windows seemed grey.

“Forgive me,” Lys choked out, hands trembling as he clenched them together, “Forgive m-me my sins, forgive me my moment of w-weakness...,” Sef’s smiling face flashed in his mind, back when they sat by the fireplace in his manor. Then he saw Sef from last night, the flushed, obscene one. He squeezed his eyes shut, “He is a demon,” he whispered, “He is a demon you sent to test me, God, and I have failed. O-Oh I have failed, God. I succumbed to his charms, to my own disgusting desires, but it was all just one night. I don’t...I don’t...,” Lys couldn’t bring himself to choke out _I don’t love him._ He took deep, calming breaths, desperate to urge his panic away. He prayed feverishly, as if his words would erase last night’s events.

When he finally rose, pale and shaky, he felt no better and yet he knew he must do something.

He snuck out of the secret exit of the Chapel and grabbed the arm of the first servant he saw. He must’ve looked like a ghost for the servant appeared much spooked as Lys explained to him that he must rouse the Masters from their beds and urge them to come pray.

A quarter of an hour later the Privy Council was gathered in the pews of the chapel, rubbing sleep in their eyes, some of them only partially dressed. The moment they were all seated Lys, who had been pacing frantically, turned to them.

“This must end now, this occupation of Wildeshell.”

He got bleary, confused looks.

“My Lord?” Lord Rassel asked, noting the feverish state Lysander was in, “Why the sudden need for action?”

“What do you mean sudden?!” Lys demanded, startling the Masters with his harsh tone that echoed around the empty room, “We have been left alone, isolated and abandoned by our own King! If we don’t act now we will be known as the nation that succumbed to the Voubren without so much as a fight!”

“Finally you speak sense, my Lord,” Archbishop Rochon said dryly, a triumphant smirk on his thin, pursed lips.

“I think it’s best if we-,” Rassel started calmly, but for once Lys didn’t want to listen to his Lord Chancellor – in fact, he could barely look at him. Rassel was like a father to him and the shame of what Lysander had done weighed down on him. Did they know? Could they tell from his appearance that he had slept with Sef – a man, the enemy?

“Archbishop,” Lys interrupted Rassel, “You have been supportive of this course of action for some time. What do you suggest?”

Rochon rose, tall and spidery and pleased with himself, “It is obvious we cannot take on the Voubren army.”

“No shit,” Baralthol laughed bitterly. He looked depressed and quiet, unlike himself. Ever since he kissed Lysander he could barely look at him.

Rochon ignored him, “And we can no longer naively hope for help from King Ormond. Although deception is not the way of the Beaus we are left with no choice but to trick King Sef.”

“Trick how?” Lysander was all-ears. He needed Sef out of the castle _now,_ and he would bury his sin in the cold ground outside and never speak of it again.

“We pretend to give him what he most wants – you,” Rochon said with a smirk. The other Masters gave him puzzled looks but before they could rebuke him, Rochon continued, “You’d go to his chambers, pretend you’ve changed your mind, pretend you desire him,” his lip curled in disgust and Lys painfully remembered last night, “then, at his most vulnerable, you will kill him.”

Nausea crashed over Lysander and he leaned back heavily against the well as an uproar of protest rose from the Masters.

“That is ludicrous!” Rassel yelled, outraged, “Murder is a sin!”

“Do you know what you’re asking?!” Baralthol demanded, furious, “You’re asking our Lord Protector to kill someone! Look at him! He’s never even hit anyone, much less _killed_ someone! You can’t expect that of him!”

“Yes he can,” Lord Sullian interjected coldly, looking younger in his night-shirt, “He is our Protector, if he will not do it, who will?”

“I will!” Baralthol yelled.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Rochon scoffed, “you would never get close enough to that sodomite, it must be Lord Lysander!”

“You cannot mean that!” Rassel gasped.

“He’s right!” Sullian snapped, “There’s no other way unless you want to be occupied for the rest of our lives, because I seriously fucking doubt that the King will get bored any time soon.”

“What is so bad about the occupation?!” Lord Bronyan, who had once more spent the night drinking with his Voubren companions, lamented, “they aren’t harming us, and without them we will fall into poverty without the benevolence of  King Ormond!”

“Don’t you see?!” Rochon hissed, “Once we are rid of the Voubren King Ormond will accept us back with open arms! We will once again be in his good grace, and in _God’s_ good grace,” he look pointedly at Bronyan, who flushed at the implication.

Only the timid secretary, Lord Patran, and Lysander, remained silent. The former was depressed and, as the carrier of bad news, blamed himself for what was ensuing. Lysander, on the other hand, felt like he was going to vomit. He imagined Sef once more bouncing in his lap, so gorgeous, and then he imagined slitting his throat. It repulsed him, the thought of hurting Sef – of hurting _anyone_. At once Lys’ mindset had changed; his disgust with himself, that had been fuelled by fear of what his actions would cause, ceased and at once he was disgusted with some of his Masters. How could Rochon and Sullian think murdering a man was the right thing to do?

Lys’ eyes swept over them as they argued, their pale, drawn out faces. Were these the people he was fighting for?

Suddenly the door to the chapel violently burst open and Voubren guards spilled inside, their faces dark with menace, spears in hand. They rushed towards the Masters.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Lord Rassel demanded as he and the others were seized. When two guards gripped Lys by the arms he didn’t struggle.

Heroti stepped forward, looking down at Lysander, “You are all under arrest.”

“On what grounds?!” Lord Bronyan spluttered.

“You have just conspired to kill our King. Those grounds are enough.”

Lys could have laughed. Of course, _of course._ How foolish he had been thinking that all these weeks he had been some sort of sly creature, organising these secret meetings, sneaking out of the Chapel. All this time Sef knew. All this time the guards had listened in on what Lys had been ‘praying’ for. It wasn’t until now, that they were beginning to conspire, that their little fun was put to an end.

The men were dragged out into the corridor in a mess of chaos.

“Get your filthy hands off me,” Archbishop Rochon scoffed at the guards gripping his wiry arms, “Barbarians!” he snarled at them, but they didn’t react.

Lord Patran went timidly, head hung low, whereas Lord Bronyan resorted to bribery, “You,” he whispered to the guard to his left, “We drank together not two nights ago. You are the one with the lovely wife. Don’t be a fool, release us and there is much reward for you...”

His attempts were futile; even if the Voubren guards weren’t as loyal to Sef as they were there were little riches that Beauralt could offer that Voubrenia didn’t already have.

Baralthol was putting up the biggest fight, as expected. Four guards had to drag him down the hallways as he bit and punched at them. His sword had been pulled away from him and yet he seemed determined to fight the guards with his bare fists, shouting obscenities at them.

“Dirty dogs! You fucking bastards! You inbred fucks!”

Both Sullian and Rassel went quietly. Sullian looked unimpressed as always and looked at Baralthol’s rage with vague disgust – his pride would never allow him to display such common behaviour. Rassel on the other hand knew that there was no point trying to negotiate with the guards or fight them – it was up to Lysander to save them from this.

They reached the long staircase by the library that led both up to the towers and down to the first floor of the castle. Here, to everyone’s dismay, Lysander was split from the group.

“Where are you taking him?!” Baralthol raged as he and the other Masters were pulled up the stairs by the bulk of the guards – they were being taken to the cells in the towers.

“It’s alright, Barry,” Lysander smiled palely at his friend and calmly descended the stairs with the two guards left to him, and Heroti. Baralthol’s and Rochon’s outraged shouts followed Lys down in the form of echoes, and the further down they got, the colder the Lord became until he was shivering beneath his fur. He knew where he was going, and he was scared. Not of the consequence of his ‘conspiracy,’ but of the person he would have to face.

The Great Hall was full of people, but they were all Voubren with no Beau in sight. Clearly the actions of the Privy Council had retracted the good-will Sef held towards the natives of the Castle for they had all been confined to their rooms and for the first time treated like the prisoners they were.

Lysander was marched in and felt the piercing, angry gazes of the foreign people around him – some hissed at him, others shouted curses in Brenii; they already knew, and Sef, sitting up on Lys’ throne, did nothing to stop their verbal assault of the Lord Protector.

When Lys gazed up at the person whose arms he had been in only a few hours before, his heart clenched and he forgot to breathe. There was no trace of that soft man anywhere – the ruddy cheeks were gone, the lustful gaze, the dishevelled hair and desperate hands – all gone. Instead Sef gazed down at Lysander with the wrath of all of Voubrenia, dressed in his finest clothes and jewellery, a golden crown on his head. He was, once more, the King.

At his side stood Beheret, looking like a queen and smirking with the knowledge that she was close to winning. The guards stopped Lys a few feet from his throne and released his arms, stepping back slightly. Lysander held his breath, feeling faint.

“Well,” Sef gritted out through his teeth, and the hisses and murmurs from the crowd fell silent, “What an interesting turn of events.”

Lysander did not know what to say. He wanted to run and hide like a child, or better yet, apologise. Now that his panic was over and he was back in Sef’s presence he was sure – more than ever – of what he wanted. And what he wanted was currently furious with him.

“Conspiring to kill me,” Sef continued coldly, “clearly I had treated you too kindly, my Lord,” the formality stung, “because you forget your place. Tell me why I should not execute you right in this moment for the insolence you have shown me.”

Lys stared at him – the crowd leaned forward in anticipation of his response.

“You wouldn’t,” Lysander said with a calm that surprised even him. Something flickered in Sef’s eyes – acceptance. Of course he wouldn’t. Waking up alone had been heartbreaking and lonely, finding out the man he had slept with, the man he _loved,_ wanted him dead was something he could barely take. And yet he still loved Lysander, stupidly, naively, and with all his heart.

“You’re right,” Sef said, matter-of-fact, “it is the unfortunate but you do have my heart, my Lord, no matter how cruelly you play with it. I won’t execute you, no, but I care nothing for your Masters.”

Lys’ blood ran cold, “Sef-“

“Or your mother,” Sef interrupted, letting his anger out now. His nostrils flared and a shadow descended on his features, “or all your fucking people in this fucking castle!” he was raging, furious, _hurt._ His heartbreak was visible to everyone, and all of his people stood by him, glaring daggers into Lys as if Sef was their son and he some boy who’d broken his heart.

“Let’s talk about this,” Lysander tried to keep calm even though he was trembling, “It was stupid talk, nothing more, it was-“

“I don’t want to hear your lies and excuses,” Sef hissed, leaning forward in his throne, “The time for love and courting is over, Lord Protector. This is the final time I am asking – marry me or I will burn Wildeshell and everybody in it to the ground.”

Venom dripped from Sef’s words – this was not the man whom Lysander had kissed yesterday, the one he had made love to. This was a cold, cold stranger and Lys was _tired_ of being treated like a child, like a pawn in a game. Beheret grinned down at the Lord Protector from her brother’s side and an unstoppable wave of anger swept over Lysander. He was angry at the world, for it was unfair.

“Burn us all then,” he spat out, pushed by his fury and not thinking straight, “Because I could never love a monster like you!”

The guards pointed their spears at Lys, and even Heroti drew his dagger. But Sef just looked defeated. At once all the energy and tension left his body. His last fight had failed and now he slumped in his throne. How foolish he had been, thinking that Lysander would forsake everything because of one night together.

The whole Great Hall heard King Sef’s heart break.

Beheret put her hand on her brother’s shoulder and squeezed, “It’s over.”

She was right. It was time for Sef to accept defeat.

“Take the Lord Protector back to his chambers and ensure he does not leave,” Sef said.

The guards seized Lysander’s arms and the man desperately wracked his brain for something – anything – he could say right now to fix this. The crestfallen expression on Sef’s face as he sat slumped in the throne right now, not meeting Lys’ eye, was breaking the Lord’s heart. He didn’t mean to hurt Sef; well, he _did._ Hearing the man threaten the people he cared for most had infuriated Lys because he thought Sef had changed and that he wouldn’t resort to violence again. The words had come out on their own accord, and Lysander didn’t mean them but now, with all the Voubren staring at him, his throat felt closed up and he was unable to convey this to Sef. Besides, he suspected it was too late to take it back.

 _This is for the better,_ Lysander thought as the guards roughly walked him to the door in the deafening, judgmental silence of the Great Hall. He didn’t know what would happen now but as he glanced at Sef as he was being pushed through the door he knew that nothing would make his heart hurt quite like seeing his expression.

**Later that same morning, across the world, early autumn.**

**The Din-Moher Harem, Antasa, Hadia.**

**Shairin Empire.**

****

The Harem had been submerged in a week of the pre-wedding celebrations that lasted a fortnight; over the days the guestrooms filled with nobles and family members that travelled to Antasa to witness the union of the Prince and his fiancée.

Following the, in Ari’s and Gus’ opinions, disastrous engagement party there was a feast, and then the day after that was a party. On the fourth day of celebrations, commonly referred to as the ‘Pleasure Night’, Ari stayed in bed all day, weaving garlands of flowers with his brother’s wives instead of copulating all over the Harem as was the custom. Gahr also didn’t take this day to sleep with as many people as possible, instead writing long love letters to Satima, letters he’d never be able to send. On the fifth day the reluctant fiancées sat side by side on thrones while the wedding guests presented them with gorgeous gifts; yards of expensive silk and old books, live peacocks and chests of diamonds, flowers and wines and gold, each gift more splendid than the last, filling up the hall. On the sixth day the Harem had a much deserved break in which guests lounged around the gardens in the stifling heat of early autumn, eating grapes and enjoying the wide-spread lethargy that was followed by an all-day party the next day.

Today Ari wasn’t required to spend time with his husband-to-be, and for that he was eternally glad. Today he and Gahr were being kept on the opposite sides of the Harem as attendants and family members fitted them in their wedding robes to ensure everything lay perfect – it was considered bad luck to have them see each other and so Ari was relieved that he’d be kept well away from the grumpy man.

“Wow,” Kater blinked tears out of her eyes, “You look so lovely, Ari.”

“Pass the pin,” Burha stuck her hand out and Eryel passed her a pin. The eldest wife fastened a sash around Arian’s waist, “It’s too big.”

“Yes,” Therian stood in front of her son, surveying him with her eyes, “We must get the tailor,” the woman instructed one of the many attendants milling around. The girl bowed and hurried out of the room and Therian smiled at her younger son, the corners of her eyes crinkling, “You look splendid, my darling.”

Arian beamed, “Thank you, mama.”

She touched his face lovingly, “Are you feeling more excited for your big day?”

Ari nodded eagerly – he found that when he focused on the pretty, shallow things like picking out flower arrangements and looking at himself dressed in expensive clothes in the mirror it became easier to deal with reality; he forgot he was marrying Gahr, refused to accept that thought, and lived in a sort of daydream, a pantomime that would end eventually.

“Come,” Therian took her son’s hand and led him across the spacious room and towards the mirror. Their bare feet treaded on the soft carpet as the attendants stood back with the wives, all watching Ari with fondness. “What do you think?” Therian asked as Arian gazed at his reflection.

He smiled, “Yes. These are lovely,” he ran his hand down the soft material of his flowing trousers and smiled at himself. Pretty clothes were such a good distraction from the terrors of reality.

A knock came on the door and all the women present turned to it.

“Excuse me,” and a bashful Gus walked inside, fitted in his armour despite the hot weather with his sword at his side. He rubbed his neck awkwardly, “I was just with the Leahil and he was talking about phases of the sun and is asking for you, Leahila Kater, because...”

He trailed off, and everybody followed his gaze which had landed on Ari. After hearing his voice the Prince had turned around and now they looked at each other, both taken aback. Gus, so determined to keep himself busy with something other than uselessly pining over Ari, had completely forgotten that today was the day he’d be here, in the apartments of the wives, trying on his wedding clothes.

Now he found himself staring at the love of his life, dressed in a startlingly red muslin trousers and a long-sleeved shirt to match, with red hibiscus flowers forming a circlet on the crown of his head, pining a flowing white veil to his dark hair. The veil flowed to the ground, to Ari’s bare feet. The Prince’s unruly dark hair had been slicked back into a low bun at the nape of his delicate neck, exposing his high cheekbones and thick eyebrows, making him look suddenly and shockingly older – for a moment, when the two of them just looked at each other, there was no youthful ruddiness to Ari’s cheeks, no child-like spark in his eye. He was a man, a grown man who would soon be married. This is what he would look like when he was given away to another.

It felt like someone had kicked Gus in the stomach.

“Seraf!” Kater exclaimed, breaking the tense silence in the room, “I will go at once! You ladies must attend me!” with a forced cheerful smile she clasped the hands of the nearest attendants and ushered the rest of them out, so the only people remaining in the room were Ari, Gus, Burha, Eryel and Therian.

The second kick to Gus’ gut came when instead of Ari’s face lighting up with excitement at the sight of him, he dropped his eyes instead, partially turning away as if he couldn’t bear to look at Gus. Their kiss hung unspoken between them in the air.

Gus’ hands clenched at his sides. Ari glued his eyes to the carpet, feeling an anxiety attack coming on just from being in the same room as his best friend. Guilt for what he did to him washed over him like a flood.

“Y-You...,” Gus was getting choked up, “Y-You look beautiful, Ari.”

“Doesn’t he?” Eryel gushed, taking some of the attention off of her brother-in-law. Therian watched the two boys with worry on her face. “I picked out the flowers, don’t they suit so?” she continued to blabber.

Gus smiled palely, “Yes. They’re wonderful.”

His eyes danced towards Ari, who hadn’t moved and continued to not look at Gus. It hurt. It felt like their friendship was over.

“I best go,” Gus bowed to the room, “Mother Leahila, Leahilas, Prince.”

He rushed out of the room and headed blindly down the corridor however he didn’t get far before the shout of his name halted him by the fountain in the crossroad of the corridor.

“Augustus!” Therian calmly walked towards him, her purple dress flowing around her. The man turned to her with a helpless look on his face, water rushing behind him quietly. Therian reached him, her face relaxed into the gentle smile that had been bestowed on him since he was a child. The Leahila slid her arm through Gus’, “Walk with me.”

The man couldn’t refuse and allowed Therian to pull him towards the side of the Harem where there were no walls, just balustrades, allowing the walkers to gaze down into the courtyard below or up into the clear blue sky.

“Lovely weather,” Therian said gently, her presence calming. Gus relaxed into her grip.

“Yes.”

“But it is not the weather I wish to speak to you about. It’s my son.”

Gus knew. He looked down at the courtyard where the wedding guests were basking in the sun, little children weaving between olive trees as he and Ari once did.

“I love him,” Gus breathed, the need to tell it to someone weighing on his chest so heavily. But he didn’t feel relieved once the words left his mouth, instead the confession just pressed down harder, for he not only was admitting the truth, he was also admitting how hopeless it was, “I’m _in_ love with him,” he whispered dejectedly.

Therian’s pace remained the same and when she spoke her voice was smooth and kind, “I know,” she replied, “I’ve known for a long time and I am honoured that such a strong, compassionate and kind man loves a child of mine.”

“But?”

“But,” Therian stopped and turned to face Gus, her eyes now full of heartbreak, “you must give up on him.”

Gus’ shoulders slumped.

“I know,” he pressed a hand over his eyes to try and keep back the tears. He let out a pathetic, miserable laugh, “I know.”

Therian squeezed his arm and he dropped his hand, “It pains me to tell you this, Gus. It pains me that it must be this way. There is nothing more I want than to watch you and my son be happy and grow old together. I believe, in my heart, that you are his one true love.” She sighed deeply with the burden and wisdom of many years as a Leahila, “but our duty is to our kingdom and our faith, predominantly, and as the Urofis scrolls say the Empire _must_ have six lands. Without the Rahun’s support in the war with Beauralt we might lose and our world might spiral into chaos and pain. It is Ari’s fate to pay the price of peace.”

Gus gritted his teeth. It was unfair that Ari, who had been bullied as a child, who had constantly been judged and criticised by everyone for being different, who suffered terrible night terrors and paralysis, who was so selflessly kind and loving and pure and caring, had to be the one to suffer. It was _unfair,_ but Gus couldn’t say that.

“It is my advice, Augustus,” Therian stepped away from him, clasping her hands in front of her, “That you forget Ari soon. If you can remain friends then that would be ideal however I doubt you can,” Gus looked down, “Find yourself someone else, Gus,” Therian said softly, “a pretty girl or a lovely boy, someone less simple than my son, someone you won’t always have to take care of.”

“He’s not simple!” Gus snapped suddenly, startling Therian whose eyes widened. Passion burned in Gus’ words, “He is more complex than anyone I know, and I _love_ taking care of him, because he takes care of me too, a-and...,” his voice faltered. He swallowed and bowed, “Apologies, Leahila, I forget my place.”

Therian watched him hurry away, worrying that she had done more bad than good. She straightened and turned on her heel, marching towards the stairs.

Seraf was reading over the treaty between the royal house of Abazza and the Rahun’s when Therian stormed into his private library.

“Mother,” the man rose quickly when he saw the stormy look on his normally calm mother’s face.

“Tell me, son,” she stopped in front of her desk, barely able to contain herself, “What is the most important scroll of Urofis?”

“Huh?” Seraf blinked, feeling like a child again, being quizzed by his tutor.

“Love, Seraf,” Therian said, “Love is the first scroll, and the most important scroll. It’s what our Empire is built upon, its foundation is love.”

“I know,” Seraf frowned, “Why are you telling me this now?”

“We cannot allow this wedding to take place.”

Realisation dawned on Seraf and he sat down with an exasperated sigh, “Not this again, mother.”

“You have gotten three chances at love, my darling,” Therian told him passionately, “Three chances to find your one true love. Ari doesn’t even get one.”

“He can marry again after Rahun! He can take as many wives and husbands as he wants!”

“We both know that won’t happen,” Therian said, “We both know that after t-the wedding night Ari will be traumatized and will close himself away from the world. He won’t find another love because he’s already found him. The relationship between him and Augustus is falling apart-“

“You think I don’t know this?!” Seraf snapped, “You think I don’t stay up at night worrying about him? He’s my baby brother, mother, I don’t want this any more than he does!”

And again, everything had come full circle. Everyone hated the idea of this wedding and dressing it up in pretty flowers and drapes was only going to succeed for so long. But it seemed that nobody, including the most powerful people in Hadia, could do anything to stop it.


	15. Ash

**That same afternoon, a sunny winter day.**

**Somewhere on the shores of Grudorin**

**The Dukkosha Settlements**

****

The sun was sitting high in the sky and yet none of its warmth reached the rocky shores of Grudorin. This part of the land had no name – it was part of the two settlements whose borders were loosely established by the Dukkosha people. Years behind in the technological advancements of other kingdoms and empires, only villages had names bestowed upon them and the Dukkosh people, who lived amicably together, surrounded by enemies, didn’t care to force their ownership on beaches and forests and mountains.

 _Sava_ docked against the rocks heavily, and no strangers poured from the scraggly cliffs overhead to demand payment for stepping foot on their land. Skuas circled overhead and snow dotted some of the exposed rocks of the cliffs, but apart from the birds and the gentle lapping of the freezing water against the rocks, it remained silent and peaceful.

There was no harbour here, no majestic ships rising from the water, no merchants shouting, no barrels being loaded. Grudorin seemed untouched by humanity.

Atek, the gloomy, blond mate, landed heavily in the shallows, water splashing over his boots as he hauled the rope towards shore, expertly tying it around a large wooden stake that had been hammered into the ground; the only sign of human presence. As he ensured that _Sava_ remained tied to land, the ship exploded into action. Basil shouted orders at the crew, his beard quivering, and Jaro stood on the prow, pipe in mouth, looking proudly at his homeland.

“What happens now?” Tomoya asked inside the tree-mast, turning an apple over in his hand absentmindedly as Stefla sat opposite him, boots on the table, carving a little man out of wood with a knife. Her curls were as wild as ever.

“What always happens,” the girl said absentmindedly, “An old woman that lives in a nearby hut - they say she is a witch,” she whispered with an inconspicuous wink, “She keeps a herd of donkeys and always lends them to us at a small price. We will load the donkeys up and take them to Talina, then Iordanina. We’ll sell all the shit we got from the Shairin and then drink ‘till we are unable to drink anymore, and then we will return to the ship.”

“Who will guide _Sava_ while you’re gone?”

She shrugged, uninterested, “Some poor bastard that lost the game of bones. Atek’s lost the last two times, which is why he’s so grumpy...actually, I’m sure he was grumpy before that.”

Tomoya smiled. They had only been on the ship ten days, but he knew he would miss Stefla dearly – a part of him, the part that didn’t feel his heart twist in his chest every time he saw Ivo, the part that didn’t make blood rush to his face at the memory of what they did, wished that he could marry this girl.

In a different part of the ship, up in the bird’s nest where it was much chillier and the salty sea breeze melted together with the earthy, wintery smell of Grudorin, Ivo and Pola sat side-by-side, squeezed together in the tiny space, sharing a peach between them.

“Will you visit?” Pola asked indifferently.

“I don’t know,” Ivo replied, “How will I find you?”

Pola shrugged, her pale blonde hair fluttering in the wind, “I don’t suppose you will.”

Ivo smiled, “I’ll miss you.”

“Not for long,” peach juice ran down her chin as she took a bite, “you’ll find new friends and new adventures.”

Ivo ruffled her hair fondly, “If things had been different I would have loved to have a sister like you.”

She turned her huge blue eyes to look at him, “I can still be your sister,” she said innocently, “You can say things like ‘my sister is lost at sea,’ or make up a story about me being a pirate.”

Ivo laughed merrily, “Perhaps I will,” he said, and when she offered him the last bite of the peach he said, “You have it,” and then, when she threw the pit into the ocean, he said, “I will miss you dearly, Pola, daughter of Bristan.”

She looked down at him, “And I will miss you too, Ivo. You should tell Tomoya about your feelings.”

“Conversation over!” Ivo stood up abruptly, “Come on, they’re starting to unload.”

Tomoya watched as Ivo and the little girl who seemed like a ghost climbed down the branches of the mast and landed on the deck. It was somewhat warm now, with the sun in the sky, but the Mairi worried about how they would fare in Grudorin alone – how far was Ivo’s village?

“You ready?” the blond boy split from the blonde girl after kissing her head and came to stand in front of Tomoya. His tone was casual, normal, and yet Tomoya could sense the unspoken things between them. Ivo’s cheeks were pink from the cold, so was the tip of his nose, and Tomoya wanted to kiss him all over.

“Yes,” he said instead.

Tavel appeared beside them, as grinning and handsome as always, and Tomoya’s mood soured.

“Here,” he offered the boys a brown bag on a leather strap.

“What is it?” Ivo asked, puzzled as he took it from the mate’s hands.

“Provisions. There’s enough food and water there to last you a week, by then you’ll undoubtedly reach Vars.”

“And here,” Hanio, the timid older brother of Pola, materialised beside Tavel. He held two huge coats in his arms, dwarfing him, “The Captain said these are a gift to you.”

One of them was inky black, with fur lining the high collar, and runes etched around the cuffs of the sleeves. The other fell to the floor and was a pale blue, with a wide hood. Both of them looked much too precious to be on board such an old, battered ship like _Sava._

Ivo immediately snatched up the blue one, eyes sparkling, “Thankyou,” his breath made a cloud before his face, “This will help on our journey.”

Ivo and Tomoya climbed onto the shore, the bag slung over Ivo’s narrow shoulder. They approach the Captain, who had come on-land and now spoke with mouthfuls of smoke with Daram, the sleepy man who usually remains in his hammock and worked during the night.

“Ah,” Jaro turns to face the boys when he heard their footsteps over the wet rocks. His eyes are unreadable, shadowed by the brim of his hat, “So you two rascals are off?”

“Yes,” Tomoya said, somewhat sheepishly, “We’d like to thank you for everything-“

Jaro waves him off, “None of that now.”

Ivo smiles, “Best of luck with Stefla.”

Jaro looked up at the sky as if searching for answers, “I’ll need more than luck with that girl. But alas, you boys could do with some luck. Look out for bears and Odelians.”

He clasped Ivo’s hand then, after a moment of thought, he clasped Tomoya’s too.

“Goodbye,” he said, and both of the men knew they would never see anybody from _Sava_ again. The ship would disappear into the morning mist...the realisation filled them with melancholy.

They climbed a perilous pathway between the cliffs and when they reached the top, their new coats keeping the cold at bay, they could see Tavel and Stefla and Pola waving at them from the deck, before Basil shouted at them to get back to work.

The boys laughed, Ivo took once last look at the vast, shimmering ocean before him, and then they began to walk. _Sava,_ the sea, the Shairin Empire and all its trials, the Tekosh Wall, it all fell away. Rocks gave way to frosted grass, and soon the boys were weaving between sparse pine trees, before delving into a forest of tangled branches that somehow still held on to dry brown leaves – winter had not quite reached this place yet and the memory of autumn hung thickly on Ivo’s tongue. The smell of earth, of vast, endless skies, of the trees around him, were painfully familiar. His legs trembled as his hands dragged over the barks of passing trees; somehow, impossibly, he was home.

He looked at Tomoya’s broad back as the ex-Guardian delved ahead of him, at his black hair climbing down his back, carefully braided by Stefla, at the ebony jacket. Tomoya hummed to himself as he walked, full of vigour and excitement, a song that old Bardara used to hum as she peeled potatoes on the deck of _Sava_ , a song whose words he never understood but whose tune made his spirits soar.

Ivo wanted to reach out and touch his back. Here, among the frosty trees, Tomoya made so much sense. Despite his exotic features, and his too-dark hair, and the fact he’d never fit into a village full of light-haired, light-eyed Dukkosh, he made sense.

They walked for miles without speaking, lost in a comfortable silence. Their walk was peaceful, surrounded by a beautiful green and white scenery – moss squelched beneath their feet, winter flowers bloomed at the bases of trees, water fluttered by in little creeks. Birds jumped from the naked branches overhead; a Goldcrest dusted in yellow, a grey Nuthatch, a beautiful Waxwing. A fox slunk between the trees up ahead. These creatures were new to Tomoya – he watched them with excitement in his eyes, and yet it was Ivo who drew his gaze the most.

The boy danced around in the shallow snow, twirled like a dancer, like a forest sprite. His hood was raised, his pale hair peeking from beneath it. He turned his palms up to the darkening sky, and plucked little white flowers from beside the water, and Tomoya was filled with so much _love_ for him that he found himself forgetting everything else, only to stumble over a root and have Ivo laugh at him.

It was nothing like their journey through the deserts of the Empire; they were so close now.

And yet night caught them before they reached Vars, Ivo’s village. It befell on them quietly and suddenly and the world filled with the hooting of owls and the sounds of twigs snapping.

“We should make camp,” Tomoya offered, glancing at the deepening shadows around him, the last of the winter sun gently caressing the tips of the trees. However the prospect of sleeping on the icy ground was a bleak one.

“Wait,” Ivo crested a snowy slope, the ground peeking out from beneath, “I’m sure it’s here somewhere...,” the boy muttered to himself. Tomoya followed him wordlessly – somewhere along the way he had learnt to trust this boy.

They walked for some more minutes, until Ivo let out a triumphant cry.

“There!” he pointed, and out of the darkness floated the outline of a cottage. It was short, squat and ugly, with a primitive thatched, uneven roof and no windows, and a crooked chimney – it had nothing on the awe-inspiring architecture of the Mairi Empire, and yet it brought a smile to Tomoya’s face. It wasn’t majestic or grand or big, but it radiated warmth.

They approached the hut and the Dukkosh tittered excitedly, “This is the place where men from our village go sometimes when there’s not enough food – they come here to fish. It’s close to the sea, and the only inhabitation between that bank and Vars, excluding all the other villages to the East.”

The boy pushed open the door and it creaked, “Hopefully they kept it stocked,” he said gleefully, something child-like about his giddiness. Tomoya followed him in and in the light of the moon as it peered through the open door he watched Ivo scramble around. Tomoya could make out a long makeshift bed on the floor, a fire pit, baskets, a tall stack of dried wood and twigs.

Ivo threw the branches into the fire-pit and fumbled around in the sack Jaro gave them. Moments later sparks poured from the flint in his hands and then a fire flared up, filling the hut with golden light and warmth. Ivo started laughing and Tomoya grinned, pushing the door shut.

“Thank goddess for this place,” he whispered and Ivo hummed out an agreement, rummaging through Jaro’s sack. Tomoya padded over to the wicker baskets and found them full of jars of jam and pickles and onions, dried meat and flour, bandages and ointments. This place was stocked enough that the two of them could spend all of winter here. Tomoya reached for a basket.

“We’ve got bread. Leave the supplies, they’re for the fishermen.”

Ivo’s voice made something jerk inside Tomoya. Suddenly the air felt thick. Tomoya’s back was to the blond but he heard him rip apart the bread, and they both realised – simultaneously – that this was the first time they were alone, _truly_ alone, in weeks. The memory of Ivo’s warm body against Tomoya’s, his hardness in the boy’s mouth, made the man’s body burn. What now? Surely they couldn’t be together. Tomoya couldn’t have Ivo, because Ivo could have anyone, with his pale eyelashes, and freckles, and delicate hands, and upturned nose, and-

“Are you going to eat or not?” Ivo asked, irritated by Tomoya’s lack of response.

“Yes!” the ex-Guardian turned around and rushed towards him, avoiding looking at him. They sat on opposite sides of the fire and shared out bread and fish.

“We should reach Vars by tomorrow,” Ivo said.

Tomoya cleared his throat, “Right. Yeah.” He shoved bread into his mouth.

Ivo nibbled on his bottom lip, “You know my father, he...uh...I know I promised you a hut, but it’ll be up to him if he wants to give you one,” his lie had sat heavy on his chest.

“Huh?” Tomoya asked distractedly, “Oh, right.” He was lost in though.

They ate in silence, the air becoming tenser and hotter around them. Their eyes refused to meet. Tomoya’s mouth felt dry, Ivo’s hands trembled.

Outside, snow fell.

Ivo and Tomoya quietly finished their meal and then pulled out the blankets the crew of _Sava_ had packed for them. They realised there was only one very long straw bed, with crudely sewn pillows and some questionably smelling blankets but the two were used to worse sleeping arrangements and neither said anything as they laid down side by side, close to each other for warmth, each wrapped up in his own blanket, heads close to the fire. It crackled warmly.

“Goodnight, Ivo.”

“Goodnight, Tommy.”

Their backs were to each other and yet it was obvious neither would sleep. The air was too thick with anticipation.

Tomoya licked his lips, his mouth brimmed with words. He wanted to talk to Ivo, “Do you know why I don’t like it when you call me Tommy?”

“You hadn’t complained about that in a while,” Ivo shoved his chin into his chest and stared at the shadows dancing on the wicker baskets across the room.

“Do you want to know or not?”

He felt the bed rustle as Ivo turned to face his back, “Yes,” he whispered, and Tomoya felt a shiver, “I want to know everything about you.”

Tomoya closed his eyes. He hadn’t thought of the Wall, of Miko and Aki and Reno, of Hiroa and the Kage mansion, of his cell, in so long...he hadn’t told anybody the truth, not after he had screamed himself hoarse in his prison and nobody came to listen to him. And yet here was a boy, an innocent, blond, beautiful boy laying behind him, who Tomoya was about to pour his heart out too.

“You never really asked me why I ended up in the Shairin Empire. Not properly, not after that first conversation we had.”

Ivo was transported back to the dusty, hot streets of Shariba, the chance bag he had stolen firmly in his grip. Then the dark alleyway, the stranger’s shadowed expression. _I just risked my life to save you._ Ivo’s hand reached towards Tomoya’s back. _You’re disgusting._ He quickly snatched his hand back and swallowed.

“I didn’t think we’d stick together for this long,” he said breathlessly, with a little laugh, “So I never bothered to find out. I’d like to find out now though.”

Tomoya took a deep breath, “In Tekoshi I was accused of murder, and imprisoned.”

“Oh.” Ivo said, “in the Wall?”

“Yes.”

“How did you escape?”

Tomoya frowned, “Aren’t you worried that I’m a murderer?”

Ivo huffed out a laugh, “Even if you were, I’ve met people much worse than you, Tomoya Itoe.”

Tomoya exhaled. Subconsciously he had known Ivo wouldn’t pass judgment on him, and yet he had been afraid...

“Her name was Hiroa Kage, and I thought I loved her.”

“Thought?” Ivo asked innocently.

Immense love brewed inside Tomoya, threatening to spill over. He was glad he couldn’t see Ivo, and clenched a hand over his chest. Their coats laid tangled together by the door. What he felt for Hiroa paled in comparison to what he felt for Ivo.

“I was sent to her mansion after my training, to become a guard. Her father was an important man, a man of the Emperor and I...she was beautiful. I got swept away by her beauty and her excitement and her curiosity. We kissed, I snuck into her bedroom, we...,” he paused, Ivo didn’t say anything. “I thought, stupidly, naively, that we’d end up together somehow, that we would get married in the cherry blossoms and live in a house on the mountain together someday.”

When he closed his eyes he saw the corridors of the Kage house. He saw the stale room in the city where the corpses of his parent’s lay.

He felt Ivo’s hand slither beneath his blanket and gently touch his back.

“There were no cherry blossoms?” the boy asked gently.

“There were no cherry blossoms,” Tomoya opened his eyes and remembered where he was, and Ivo’s touch seeped through his shirt and warmed him, “She was engaged. She told me, I wanted to end it, and yet I couldn’t. Marriage was so sacred to me, I wanted her to be my love, my wife, I was blinded by my infatuation, by my own ridiculous fantasies...,” he exhaled, “Her wedding came close, and guilt made me vomit in my chambers every day. Finally I told her we could no longer continue living in sin, and that we had to respect the gods and the laws.”

 _Sin. You’re disgusting._ Ivo went to withdraw his hand but Tomoya reached behind himself and clasped the boy’s wrist, keeping him there.

“Don’t,” he said softly.

“Okay,” Ivo laid his palm flatly between Tomoya’s broad shoulders.

There was a moment of silence, a moment of the fire crackling. Then Tomoya resumed his story.

“She asked me for one final night together. I agreed, and when dark fell I snuck into her bedroom, into her bed.” He didn’t remember the sex, it was all blurry, even Hiroa’s face, “Jungoku, her fiancée, entered. I assume he wanted to engage in some forbidden activities before their wedding night. He saw us together. I was shocked, I couldn’t move. Hiroa shoved me off, began to talk to him, and yet he could only look at me – with pure hatred, hatred I haven’t seen since. He drew his sword, I picked my trousers off the floor and shoved them on. Hiroa screamed at me to run, and so I did. I don’t know how I got away – or I didn’t know then – I simply sprinted through the silent mansion and fell into my bed and pressed a pillow over my head. That night I kept expecting a blade to pierce through me, for Jungoku’s rage to catch up to me.”

“But it didn’t,” Ivo guessed softly, sliding his hand underneath Tomoya’s shirt. His hand was warm and soft against the man’s skin, unlike the edge of a blade.

“No. The guards came instead,” his voice grew distant, cold, “In the morning. Hiroa had been found with my sword through her chest, cold and dead in her bed. My clothes were on the floor, I had left my blade. I was arrested immediately.”

Ivo’s hand clenched into a fist against Tomoya’s back, “He killed her.”

“No,” Tomoya said softly, “I did. I let my desires take the best of me, and then I ran and left her, and now she is dead and buried.”

“That’s not true,” Ivo said fiercely, “You didn’t kill her.”

“I failed to protect her, I failed as a Guardian.”

“Can you turn around and look at me?” Ivo tugged on Tomoya’s shirt. The Mairi squeezed his eyes shut, afraid.

“No.”

Ivo hugged himself against the man’s back, whole body suddenly pressed against Tomoya. He squeezed him as hard as he could, clinging onto him, face shoved between Tomoya’s shoulder-blades.

“It wasn’t your _fault,”_ he said, choked up. _Please,_ he though, _please believe me, please..._

Tomoya carefully wrapped his arms over Ivo’s, that were wrapped around his torso. He rested his hands against Ivo’s, and stroked them gently.

“Thank you.” A pause. “My best friend at the Wall, Miko, he used to call me Tommy.”

As if remembering where they were, Ivo pulled away, bright red. He cleared his throat.

“What happened to him?”

He saw Tomoya shrug in the fire-light, “He was the one who helped me escape, him and Reno and Aki. Miko lowered me out of the cell on a rope, all the way to the ground. I don’t know if he was ever caught for it.”

“Do you think he was?” Ivo asked, “Do you think any of them were?”

Tomoya shook his head, “No. I don’t think so. I think this story has a happy ending, Ivo.”

“You know,” Ivo whispered after a moment, “Love...it shouldn’t be painful.”

“Have you ever been in love?” Tomoya asked.

Ivo grabbed him by the shoulder and in a burst of strength rolled Tomoya onto his back. In seconds Ivo was on top of him, crushing their bodies together, kissing him with the ferocity of a deprived wolf, mouths pressed together so tightly breathing wasn’t an option. The blond’s small hands gripped Tomoya’s face, keeping him there, preventing any attempt to escape...but Tomoya couldn’t even _think_ about escaping. His eyes were wide open, he noted the frown between Ivo’s light brows, the tremble in his thighs, the desperate, hungry way he licked his way into Tomoya’s mouth.

And then, just as Tomoya got over his surprise, Ivo’s sense returned.

He pulled away just as violently as he had dove in, eyes huge and glistening, mouth wet.

“Fuck,” he made a move to climb off, “Fuck, fuck, _fuck,_ I’m sorry-“

 _You’re disgusting._ Ivo’s head swam, his heart drowned in emotions, his core throbbed with need, and his mouth tasted like regret and rejection.

Arms wrapped around him, the world tilted and suddenly he was laying on the ratty pillows, hair spread around him like a golden crown, and Tomoya was hovering above him with the gentlest expression on his face.

“T-Tommy-“

“Don’t,” Tomoya echoed his earlier words softly and pressed his hand over Ivo’s mouth, silencing the apologies and panic he knew he’d be given. Ivo’s eyes were huge and green and full of uncertainty. Tomoya replaced his hand with his mouth, gently sliding it against Ivo’s. The blond’s lips parted almost instantaneously with a soft gasp as he melted, hands gripping the upper-sleeves of Tomoya’s shirt.

For Tomoya there was no guilt, no thoughts of _this is wrong_ that flooded his mind every time he kissed Hiroa. There was only the warmth, the sense that everything would be alright. Ivo was shivering, gasping, arching up into Tomoya from just a simple kiss, and Tomoya remembered his rage, all the hands of all the strangers touching the boy’s hips and neck and thighs.

Ivo wasn’t thinking about that, about all the men who had him before, all he could think about was Tomoya. Tomoya who was willingly kissing him, touching him as if he were some precious porcelain doll, dragging his fingers through his hair, stroking just beneath his eyes with his thumb. The kiss didn’t gain speed, it remained slow and languid and deep and wet, and every time their tongues slid together Ivo shivered in his core. His shirt rode up, his legs crept up Tomoya’s sides, yearning to wrap around his waist, to pull the man inside of himself and stay connected forever.

Tomoya pulled away an inch, a breath away, and the two men looked at each other with half-open eyes.

“Tell me what to do,” Tomoya said softly, “I’ve never done this before, not with a man.”

Ivo’s eyes widened an inch, “You want to sleep with me?” he asked breathlessly.

“I want to make love to you,” Tomoya replied.

Ivo jerked into a sitting position, “Alright, yeah, okay,” he blabbered and pulled his shirt over his head hurriedly. His body was slim, soft, pale, his shoulders sunburned, “We can do that, we definitely can, let’s just-“

“Hey,” Tomoya laughed. He was so at ease. He grabbed Ivo’s wrists in his and dragged the shirtless boy closer, “It’s alright, we don’t have to rush, we have all the time in the world.”

The boy blinked at him as if the concept was foreign to him. There was a mole on Ivo’s left shoulder and Tomoya leaned down to kiss it, and then began to press feather-light kisses up the boy’s neck.

“D-Do you want me to suck you off again?” the Dukkosh asked in a trembling voice, “Because I can, it’s no problem, it’ll make this easier later on...,” he was nervous. For the first time since he lost his virginity to a farmer’s boy a few years older in a haystack, he was nervous. For the first time, sex made him nervous, because he was in love with the person kissing him.

“No,” Tomoya murmured, “I want you to just lie down.”

He pushed Ivo onto his back on the blankets. Ivo exhaled. It was the wrong way around; he should be cool, relaxed, confident, the one with all the experience, and Tomoya should be the one acting like a flustered virgin.

Pieces of hair escaped Tomoya’s braid as he kissed down Ivo’s naked chest; a kiss to each of Ivo’s sunburnt shoulders, one where the collarbones met, a kiss to each nipple, a kiss to Ivo’s navel, to each protruding hipbone.

He slid off Ivo’s brown breeches that had been held on by a piece of string, and slid them down his pale legs. His hair there was fine and soft, but darker on his crotch, where it surrounded his hard cock. Like the rest of Ivo, it was ridiculously pretty.

Tomoya brushed the tip with his thumb experimentally and Ivo shuddered, letting out a little cat-like mewl. Is this what he enjoyed so much? Is this what he craved every time he had sex? The desire to drink up your partner’s every reaction?

The ex-Guardian pressed his tongue to the underside of the boy’s cock. He didn’t know what he was doing, the feeling of throbbing hardness against the muscle was unlike the feeling of the soft wetness between Hiroa’s legs. And yet Tomoya was driven by an urge, and instinct, and he lapped at Ivo’s cock like a dog and the boy moaned and his little toes curled.

“O-Oh Gods,” he gasped, pressing a hand over his face, “F-Fuck... _ah...”_

Tomoya sucked him gently, figured out what got the best reactions. When he slid his tongue in the little slit at the top, a whole-body shiver would race through Ivo, when he licked along the vein the boy would grasp at the blankets below him and gasp, when he sucked it all the way into his mouth he would moan sweetly.

Tomoya wanted more. He slid lower, sucked on Ivo’s ball, making him whimper, and pushed the boy’s legs up over his shoulders, revealing the smooth, creamy globes of his ass, and the little puckered hole there.

“Can I lick you here?” he asked. It was simply what he wanted to do.

Ivo’s peeked down at him from between his fingers, his face so red it seemed sunburnt again, “I-I mean y-yeah, i-if you want to, but um, that’s a bit dirty and- _oh.”_

His tiny gasp was heavenly, his hands falling down so his fingers could sink into Tomoya’s hair even more so. The braid slid apart and the man’s raven hair fanned out across his back as he pushed his tongue into the most intimate part of Ivo.

The room swam in front of the blond – the fire, the wicker baskets, their jackets. He could barely focus, his bones felt like they were melting in the most delightful way. Tomoya’s tongue was shy, curious, prodding, sliding this way and that, pushing in deep only to retreat and lap at the entrance. Ivo’s breaths were quick and desperate, his brows furrowed as he tried to cling onto this moment, this feeling, before it ended.

And it did end. Tomoya floated back into Ivo’s sight, above him, his hair cascading down and creating a kind of dark waterfall that separated Ivo from the world outside. Tomoya looked younger, his features softer. His mouth tasted different when he kissed Ivo.

“What do we do?”

“It’s fine, just put it in,” Ivo murmured.

“Can I?” he asked, his fever concealed behind his soft tone. He ran a hand up Ivo’s thigh, and Ivo felt drunk, “Please?”

He nodded, “I’ll turn around,” he mumbled, fumbling with his words, “S-So...so it’s easier...”

He flipped onto his stomach, pressed his face into the pillows. They smelled like a barn, like an enclosure full of camels...Tomoya kissed him between his shoulders, drinking in the sight of him, all of Ivo’s pale skin and sunburn and freckles, all his, right in this moment.

“I love you,” he breathed against Ivo’s skin but the blond didn’t hear over his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. He gripped the covers beneath him, and waited with bated breath.

Tomoya looked down at him, then down at himself, at his cock curved upwards, ready, glistening with pre-cum. He spat in his hand, and rubbed it over his erection. If some weeks ago someone had told him he’d be doing this in some bizarre hut in the middle of a Grudorian forest he would have laughed.

He hoped it was enough, but he could barely bear to be apart from Ivo in that moment. With Hiroa it was rushed moments and overwhelming guilt, this was...

Tomoya slid in. He wanted to go slow, to savour every moment, but the instant the head of his cock was enveloped in Ivo’s impossible, hot tightness, all Tommy could do was sink into him, right into the hilt.

Ivo cried out, back arching, “W-Wait-“

“Shhh, I’m sorry,” Tomoya buried his face in the space between the blond’s neck and shoulder, panting, trying to hide how badly he was shaking. His whole world had just melted into pleasure.

Then Tomoya realised that he came so close to never meeting Ivo. If he hadn’t escaped his cell, if Ivo had chosen somebody else’s bag to steal, if they had been in different Public Houses...

Tomoya wrapped an arm around Ivo’s waist and squeezed the boy up against him. The boy whined and grinded back against the place where they were joined.

“T-Tommy,” he huffed, the slight pain burning through his veins, “It’s fine, just move, I-I’m used to it...”

“I’m not,” Tommy gritted out, clutching Ivo a tiny bit closer. The blond huffed out a laugh, his hair sticking to his damp forehead. He reached behind himself and tugged on Tomoya’s hair, until the man looked up and Ivo could angle his head for a clumsy kiss.

Then he collapsed onto his pillows, his head in his folded arms.

“F-Fuck,” he laughed shakily, “W-Who would’ve though you’d be s-so big, Tommy.”

The ex-Guardian grabbed his hips and slid out partway, before pushing himself back into that delicious, throbbing heat. Ivo let out a drawn out moan.

Ivo didn’t understand this feeling. He had gotten fucked so many times before and yet this was so different – the burn of being filled was the same, the pleasure of having a wet head dragging over _that_ spot inside him was the same, and yet there was a feeling blossoming in his chest like a flower, a feeling that threatened to consume him and made him want to sob and claw at the covers and scream Tomoya’s name.

“Tommy,” he whispered instead, voice whiny against the pillows as he gasped every time he was entered by the man. Tomoya’s hands dug into his hips, “T-Tommy...,” his voice was trembling, everything inside him was trembling. Tomoya wasn’t going particularly hard or fast, but Ivo still felt like he was going to fall apart.

Tomoya saw that, saw it in his ragged breathing, in the way he was gripping the ratty blanket, the way he arched his back as if to try and pull Tomoya deeper inside him. For the first time in his life Tomoya felt reckless, relaxed, the feeling of being swallowed up by Ivo, being gripped by his walls, it was all intoxicating, it was making Tomoya lose his mind. He didn’t feel guilty, he felt in love.

The cottage filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, of murmured sweetness and gasping breaths.

It was Ivo who came first, shaking violently as Tomoya reached beneath him to grab his cock and clumsily stroke it in time with his thrusts. Ivo started moaning with abandon, borderline sobbing.

“Fuck, fuck, _please..._ nghhh, Gods, I’ll... _Tommy..._ Tommy, o-oh f-fuck...”

His cum was a white jet, soaking in the blanket below him. Tomoya didn’t want to ruin another, and so he came inside the boy just as his walls were finally releasing him from their vice grip.

They gasped for air, Tomoya slumped against Ivo who laid on the bed, not caring about the heavy weight on his back. He felt sleepy, content, fulfilled – sex always made him relax but this time it made him feel like he was floating on a cloud.

Tomoya rolled off Ivo and laid on his back, staring at the wooden beams of the ceiling of the hut. His hand subconsciously stroked Ivo’s damp hair.

“Are you alright?” he asked hoarsely, feeling the warm embrace of sleep creep up on him.

“More than alright,” Ivo mumbled, smiling sleepily against the pillow, “Can’t move,” he whispered, even as Tomoya’s semen dribbled down his thighs.

The dry, ratty blanket was thrown over him and Tomoya pressed himself up against Ivo’s back, wrapping his arms around him and keeping the boy close. He pressed a kiss into his curls, then another. All he wanted was to remain close to the blond.

As the fire died away and the night forest outside awoke to life, the two drifted off into a peaceful sleep, tangled together.

They woke just after dawn and got dressed in silence, in the watery light of the morning. They kept glancing at each other, blushing and looking away like teenagers. Neither knew what to say.

A grey morning greeted them when they exited the cottage – in the cold winter light they could see mountains rising in the distance, and the trees stretching on for miles ahead of them.

“How far is your village?” Tomoya asked, exhaling a cloud of white and shouldering the bag – it was his turn to carry it. He looked like a kind of fantastical soldier in his dark jacket, his hair slicked back into a ponytail.

It had been so easy for Ivo to consider this man his the previous night but now, in the sobering light of day, it became harder. Tommy’s face didn’t betray any emotion – did he regret last night? Did he want to continue this, whatever this was?

 “Half a day if we’re quick,” Ivo replied, looking up at the grey sky overhead, the tips of the hemlock trees brushing against the clouds gathering; a few stray snowflakes fluttered down to the frosted ground.

They set off, falling into a comfortable rhythm that they had worked out over their last month together. There was no bickering and complaining as there had been when they trekked through the desert, no angry Basil screaming down at them as they polished the ship’s decks and pulled up the sails. It was just them, the lazily falling snow, the last of the squirrels who hadn’t gone to sleep yet scurrying through the trees. Ivo walked up ahead, light and graceful as a deer, cheeks ruddy and feet eager to take him home. Tomoya was happy to remain behind, following the tracks he made in the shallow snow as he disappeared ahead, and to stare at his behind when he appeared again. 

The day continued, the spruces and cedars gave way to naked trees and long fields covered in snow. The mountains on the horizon appeared and disappeared in mist. At what the boys estimated was noon, they stopped beneath a huge, leafless oak tree and sat at its roots, sharing dried fish and slightly stale bread.

“What are those mountains?” Tomoya asked, eyes focused on the ragged grey peaks in the distance.

“I don’t know,” Ivo shrugged, ripping bread with his teeth, “they don’t have a name. Neither does this forest, or any forest in the Settlements.”

Tomoya frowned, “How do you know geographical locations then? How do you make maps?”

“We don’t,” Ivo said, “We rarely communicate with other villages, we trade sometimes, but we’re very...,” he looked for the right word, “After seeing the Shairin Empire, even the way the Odelians are organised, the Dukkosha settlements are old-fashioned, backwards, we’re closer to nature than we are to civilisation.”

“It’s nice,” Tomoya closed his eyes as a chilly wind brushed his face, “Being so far away from everything. I see why you missed it so much.”

Ivo nodded absent-mindedly. Tomoya watched hm eat and wondered what the blond was thinking; sex was something casual to him, did he have feeling for Tomoya too or had it been a one night thing? No...there was no way the blond could have faked the way he looked, the way he sounded, all that desperation...

“You know,” the blond spoke suddenly, shyly looking up at Tomoya through his pale eyelashes, “If we can’t find you a cottage...or rather, it might take some time,” he swallowed, “but...you know, you could stay with my family for a while. I’m sure my father would welcome you with open arms if I told him you saved my life,” he laughed awkwardly, trying to mask his eagerness and pounding heart.

“Yeah,” Tomoya smiled gently and Ivo smiled back, “I think I’d like that.”

“I have my own room,” Ivo continued, encouraged by Tommy’s words, “up in the top part of the hut, it’s small and you need to climb a ladder up it but...,” his voice faltered, his eyes dropped, “You could stay there...with me...if you wanted, that is!” he added hurriedly.

Tomoya wracked his brain for Dukkosh traditions and customs; they were the most secretive peoples apart from the witches of Beauralt, and little was known about them – they weren’t united, had no leaders, lived as farmers on their own land that they defended fiercely against invaders. They were a free people, and Tomoya was almost certain they, like the Northmen, accepted relations between the same sex, and paid little mind to marriage, but he wasn’t sure and he was too afraid to ask for what it might implicate.

They packed back up and Tomoya gave Ivo the bag to carry but the boy stayed ahead despite the added load. It began to snow harder, and the air grew colder. Wind howled through the empty fields when the two boys struggled through, and they so no people, no abandoned cottages. Sometimes smoke would curl up into the sky from the trees but they never found any villages; according to Ivo there weren’t any in this part of the huge, unnamed forest.

After many hours of walking the air chilled considerably and the sky, before the colour of grey silk, began to darken into granite. Clouds blew over it, and it was clear that sunset was close.

The cold didn’t deter Ivo though, who suddenly turned to Tomoya. They were back among the trees, who looked the same as they had for ages, but Ivo was giddy.

“We’re close!” he said excitedly, “I recognise this area!”

How, Tommy had no idea, but he couldn’t help but grin and follow Ivo through the trees. However the blond’s excitement carried him ahead, and soon he disappeared from Tomoya’s view. The ex-Guardian crested a small hill, breathless and searching for the pale blue of Ivo’s jacket among the greys and whites of the landscape. He leaned against a tree to catch his breath and then pressed on. The trees began to thin. Darker snow poured from the sky. The air began to smell weird.

Tomoya frowned, uneasiness settling inside him.

“Ivo?” he called, and there was no reply. No birds sang in the trees. Tomoya’s step hurried. “Ivo!”

The blond had left marks on a snowdrift, and Tomoya scrambled up it, hands gripping roots and stones to haul himself up, panic rising in his throat. For some reason he feared that when he crested the snowdrift he’d see an endless field of snow, and the blond would be gone.

The sight in front of him was much, much worse.

Yes there was a field, but instead of being covered in snow it was covered in ash. It had been ash that had been swirling from the sky for a while now, not snow. Ash from a burned village.

It was not newly burned – no fires flickered in the grotesque remains of huts. The beams and bones of what once were the houses of Dukkosh were now carcases sticking up into the sky. It was – or had been – complete carnage. What was left behind were twisted wooden beams, piles of debris, a metal pot here, a half-burned shoe there. Bones, not many, leftovers of the people that once lived here, bones that hadn’t been carried off by wild animals yet.

Vars was gone, it had been for a long time. Ivo stood at the gates of the destruction, a lone figure with a shock of pale blond hair and a baby blue jacket. He stood there, and he seemed tiny.

Tomoya clumsily slid down the snowdrift, kicking up ash, and hurried towards the blond.

“Ivo!” he called breathlessly, hand outstretched, and then stopped with his fingers inches away, panting. _What do I say?_

He didn’t have to say anything, because suddenly Ivo took off, running into the snow-covered, ash-covered destruction that was once his home. Tomoya didn’t run after him.

Ivo could taste the ash in his mouth, filling his lungs as he gasped for air, boots slapping against the ground, the blood-soaked snow not yet covered, kicking up cinders. He passed houses and it took a moment for his eyes to realise what they were; here the blacksmith made horseshoes for the stallions, here Lucja made fresh buns every morning, here the old women of the village hung up snowy white sheets on ropes strung between houses...and yet there was nothing, nothing left except some wooden beams and ashes and ashes and ashes.

Ivo stopped running when he reached his doorstep – what months ago had been a beautiful little cottage, with ivy creeping between the stones and flowers in the windows, was now nothing. There were not even remains of furniture, no broken pots and pans. All there was, was a pile of disjointed, charred debris, and somewhere among it were the ashes of Ivo’s parents.

The boy’s breathing didn’t slow, it increased helplessly. When he had seen his village he told himself it wasn’t Vars, that it was Rurka or Slez or Kalina. But the lake twinkling nearby between the sparse trees, the familiar angle of the mountains...and yet Ivo had harboured hope. He couldn’t have come all this way, gotten through so much, for it all to be for nothing. He had expected his house to stand among the destruction, for his elderly parents to come through the door. _Don’t worry Ivonko,_ they’d say, using the nickname they gave him as a child, _This is nothing. It is just ash. Come, Ivonko, come for supper._

Ivo fell to his knees in the ash, and tears silently poured down his face.

It had been for nothing after all. The Gods were cruel.

He didn’t know how long he knelt there, tears dripping into the snow and ash. Petals tumbled from the sky, and he didn’t know what they were. They landed on his wet cheeks, his legs trembled from the cold he didn’t feel, and night crept on.

Ivo wanted to lie down and die, to curl up where his parents had been burned by Odelians - weeks, months ago? – and die.

But Tomoya didn’t let him, he appeared next to Ivo at sundown.

“We should go back,” his voice was barely louder than the wind, “we can’t sleep here.”

The place felt like it was brimming with ghosts – Tomoya didn’t believe in spirits; he never saw the images of his parents walking aimlessly through the corridors of the Wall, never woke to Hiroa’s ghostly face hovering over him as he slept. And yet here he felt uneasy – how many people had died here? He knew the ways of the Odelians; they’d lock people in their houses and set them on fire and happily listen to the sounds of their screams as they died. The Dreiyards were known as barbarians, but they gave their victims clean deaths. He hoped Ivo didn’t know that.

He didn’t touch the Dukkosh, possibly the last survivor of this village, its only heritage, didn’t know if the boy wanted him to touch him, but the blond rose alone. He looked like a ghost himself, face and hair light, dusted with ash.

They trekked out of what was once Vars, back up the snowdrift – Tomoya wondered if it was even a snowdrift, or if it was made of the ashes of the people who died here – and back into the forest. The air stank. The silence was oppressive.

Tomoya felt empty, Ivo’s eyes looked straight ahead, not seeing. He remembered himself in the warm, sunny fields behind the village, rolling in the grass with his cousins and friends. He remembered the smell of fresh linen as it dried, the sound of laughter and old songs being sang as people celebrated the first day of spring. He remembered the kisses he had stolen behind barns, and the warm touches of his parent’s hands. All gone.

They re-traced their steps back they way they came, wordlessly sensing where they were returning. Even as night fell they continued to walk. The moon was obscured by clouds, the men stumbled over roots. Halfway back to the cottage, Ivo burst into tears.

Tomoya hurried his step and walked side by side with the boy but when he reached out to take his hand, Ivo flinched away from him. He hugged himself and with his chin shoved into his chest cried over the death of his family. When had they been slaughtered? Was it when he stole from drunk Shairin lords, or when he stood in the bird’s nest of _Sava_ and felt the wind in his hair?

It all hurt so bad, but eventually his sobs subsided and their echoes died among the trees and he was filled with a terrible loneliness instead, the realisation that he’d be forever alone.

A twig crunched under Tomoya’s boot and for the first time in hours Ivo looked at his companion as if just remembering he was there. The ex-Guardian’s brows were drawn, his eyes full of worry. His story echoed through Ivo’s had; Tomoya had nobody either. Except he had Ivo, and Ivo had him.

The blond reached out and grasped the edge of Tomoya’s jacket. The surprised man glanced at him but Ivo had already dropped his gaze again, and sniffled as they pushed on through the snow.

They reached the cottage much after midnight – it seemed cold and abandoned. How long had it stood abandoned before Ivo and Tomoya found it?

The ex-Guardian pushed open the door but Ivo hesitated in the snow.

“You coming in?” Tomoya looked at him. Ivo stood, hugging himself.

“No,” he said, “Not yet. Give me a moment, Tommy.”

Tomoya nodded and entered the hut even though he didn’t want to leave the blond alone. He never wanted to leave him alone again, and yet he knew he had to give the boy space. He remembered the terrible void that filled him when his parents passed away, and he knew Ivo would have to deal with it alone.

Tomoya busied himself; he started the fire in the pit, loading it with brushwood. His eyes swept over the wicker baskets full of food, the old ratty blankets. The supplies had been left for them; nobody would be coming back for them. This was all that was left of a whole village.

Tomoya fluffed out the pillows the best he could, re-arranged the bed so the stained blanket was at the bottom. He did the best he could to make the cottage be full of warmth and safety and not full of ghosts.

Ivo came in after an hour, shivering and wet. His eyes seemed child-like, fleeting and anxious.

“Food?” Tomoya asked, wanting to distract him from the cottage around him. Ivo shook his head and padded over. He slipped off his wet boots and jacket, and laid down on the bed, curling up very, very small.

Tomoya finished eating, also took off his boots and jacket, placing them neatly next to Ivo’s, and laid next to the boy. They faced each other for a second, and then Ivo was on top of Tomoya, kissing him heatedly, with the desperation of a heartbroken man.

“Hey!” Tomoya sat up, Ivo straddling him, but the blond just grabbed his face and forced their mouths together again. Tomoya pried his hands away and gripped them in one of his, before grabbing Ivo’s hair and tugging him away, firmly but gently. “Hey,” he repeated, softer.

Ivo’s eyes brimmed with tears, “Please,” he whispered helplessly, “I need this to forget.”

He had always used sex as an escape, but Tomoya shook his head. Ivo’s stomach dropped.

But Tomoya wasn’t rejecting him. He carefully wrapped his arms around Ivo as if he was a precious, breakable thing. He hugged the blond against him, and Ivo burst into tears.

He sobbed and gripped the back of Tommy’s shirt, clutching him with his legs and burying his face in the man’s shoulder. Tomoya rocked him with a gentleness that neither of them knew he possessed, stroked his back lovingly. He pressed kisses to Ivo’s forehead and wet cheeks, slid a blanket over his trembling, narrow shoulders.

“You need to feel this,” Tomoya murmured, “It’s alright.”

Ivo cried until it began to dawn outside and snow was coming down in a flurry. Only then, exhausted, did the blond climb off the Mairi and lay down on the blankets. Tomoya poked the fire with a stick to get it going again and then laid next to the boy he loved.

Ivo’s eyes were half-closed, blood-shot and rimmed with red. His nose was wet, his lips dry and cracked, his pale eyelashes clumped together. He was so beautiful.

“What happens now?” he asked, voice quiet and hoarse from all the sobbing.

“We can keep going,” Tomoya said.

“What’s past here?” Ivo closed his eyes. His little hand was curled in the space between the men and Tomoya covered it with his own.

“To the east is Itreoris,” he murmured, and Ivo tensed at the mention of the Odelian Empire, “and to the West, past Pagny, is Veoviel.”

“They’re everywhere. The Odelians.”

“We don’t have to go to them,” Tommy assured him, “we could return to the Shairin Empire, to Shariba or we could see Jarrej or Lakosta. Or we could see all the wealth of Voubrenia, or the wild forests of Atavya.”

Ivo’s eyes opened, a tiny smile on his face. He sniffled, “I don’t think I want to go. It took us so long to get here.”

Tomoya kissed him lightly on the lips, “We can stay in Grudorin, together.”

“You’re the last person I have left,” Ivo whispered. _I can still be your sister._ Pola was lost at sea.

Tomoya thought of Miko, and Aki and Reno, so, so far away. He’d never see them again, but their memory was fond in his heart, “You are the last person I have left too.”

Ivo smiled, “My father wasn’t the Chief. I lied about having a house for you.”

“You gave me this house, didn’t you?” Tommy squeezed his hand.

**The next day, across the Murmur Sea, autumn.**

**The Din-Moher Harem, Antasa, Hadia.**

**The Shairin Empire.**

****

Gus hurried through the hallways of the Harem, pretending he was busy. He was sweating beneath his armour, his sword at his waist, but the pretty attendants and servants still paused where they were hanging up garlands of flowers and rich sashes in order to giggle and wink at him as he passed.

Chaos descended on the edge of Hadia, and there were news that Beauralt was planning to invade the deserts of Dorocium. Seraf called his war-lords together to make a plan and it was looking as if he’d have to set off as head General himself to stop the attack; and perhaps miss his little brother’s wedding.

 _What day is it?_ Gus tried to remember, _what ritual will it be tonight?_ He was a good student when it came to military tactics, and history of wars, but he never had a mind for Shairin religion and wedding preparations, and now could not remember what would happen tonight. Another party? Undoubtedly. If everything went to plan Arian would be married in four days, and then everything would be over. Would Gus feel relieved, would this horrible tightness in his chest ease up? At least then things would be set in stone, unless Ari decided to take Gus for his second husband...would Gus say yes?

He bumped into a servant girl carrying an armful of expensive china plates. They wobbled dangerously and they both looked at each other with wide, wild eyes. The plates steadied.

“Gods, Augustus,” the girl huffed, “Pay attention!”

She hurried on her way. Gus exhaled and leaned against the balcony. He was living in a daze. The courtyard below was full of servants rushing through, carrying gowns and cloaks. The Odelian rubbed his forehead; he had a headache coming on, and he felt exhausted.

“Augustus, isn’t it?”the rough, sleazy voice drifted from the shadows cast by the columns holding up the ceiling. Gus blinked and saw Gahr slip towards him, dressed in green and looking like a venomous snake. Gus tense, “What a coincidence,” the man smiled, and it never reached his dark eyes.

“My Lord,” Gus said coldly, “Do you require something?”

Gahr hated seeing Ari, and all the people who flocked to him, but he hated seeing Augustus even more – this pale, collected man had no place being here at staring at _his_ fiancée with so much desire. Yes, Gahr didn’t _want_ Ari, but that didn’t mean anyone else could have him. He had been hiding here in the cool shade near the fountain, away from the ruckus of the guests downstairs, and his prey had wandered to him on its own, and now hatred filled Gahr.

“How was the pleasure night?” the man asked. Augustus blinked.

“Sorry...the what night?”

“The fourth night of the wedding fortnight,” Gahr cocked a bushy eyebrow, “The one where we were supposed to sleep with as many people as we desire,” he looked at Gus, noted his expression,“Oh...I would have assumed my little fiancée would have jumped right into your bed, but from your expression it seems that he doesn’t want you half as much as you want him.”

Gus’ jaw clenched, “Is that all you wanted to speak about?”

“No, actually,” Gahr slithered closer. The shadows deepened around Gus, the servants and the chatter and the smell of autumn faded away and it was just him and this cunt he hated, “You angry about tonight?”

“Why would I be angry?” Gus practically seethed.

Gahr shrugged, “The night of the pursuing, it’s a pretty...,” he cleared his throat and grinned, “hot affair.”

Gus’ brows knitted together and he wracked his brain.

He was twelve again, sitting with his tutor at the huge table in the library, looking through books of beautifully illustrated pictures. His tutor’s voice droned on and Gus studied the illustrations of the dark-skinned, elf-like creatures dressed in white on the pages. _The tenth night of the wedding preparations is called the_ _‘_ _Night of the Pursuing,_ _’_ _and during that night one of the couple is chosen_ _a_ _nd let out into the desert with all the virgin boys and girls. They are to hide and run, and the pursuer is to chase them. They are all dressed in white, you see, and the pursuer must find his fiancée. If they do, they are free to do whatever they please to their betrothed in the sand._

Gus wanted to be sick, “He’d never let you.”

“It’s not up to him,” Gahr grinned, “He’s not the one chasing.”

He was lying to get a reaction out of the Odelian – Ari had been excused from tonight because his anxiety was too bad to participate, so Gahr would have to chase all the other pretty girls and boys and pick himself someone he’d sleep with. All he wanted was Satima, all the way back home.

“Is that all?” Gus asked, jaw clenched, eyes staring up ahead.

“You’re jealous, aren’t you?” Gahr grinned. _Yes,_ he thought, _feel the pain I feel._

“No,” Gus lied, “Prince Omarian is not mine.”

“Ah, but you wish he was,” Gahr taunted, “Tell the truth, you despise me. You despise me because he will be _mine,_ and not yours, because you know how this will go. You’ll know I’ll wreck him on our wedding night, give him something to cry about-“

Gus lunged for Gahr – stupidly, letting his anger get the best of him. He shoved the surprised Shairin against the column and squeezed his throat and Gahr’s eyes filled with shock.

Then iciness descended on his face. He was a Lord, Gus was only a ward of the Leahil. The Odelian released the man he hated.

“Apologies, my Lord,” he said as emotions rolled over him, and then rushed off, fast, faster than normal, he earned himself concerned glances from the servants as he threw himself down stairs. _Idiot, idiot..._ what now? Would Gus be punished for doing that to a noble...

He walked blindly through the hallways, climbed up stairs, then back down, his mind feeling like it would explode and splatter on the cheerfully decorated walls around him. Dark thoughts clouded his judgment; Ari in front of a priest or priestess, looking at Gahr, smiling, eyes full of love. He imagined their life together – hand in hand, walking through gardens, kissing, making love. It was a bizarre image and followed by a set of different ones, more realistic ones. Ari crying in his wedding bed as Gahr forced himself on him, Ari walking around with a blank look in his eyes, Ari never really living again.

Somehow Gus found himself on the third floor, right outside Omarian’s door, hand reaching out to knock on the wood. The sun was almost setting and Gus didn’t know what he was doing. He had a military mind, his life was a cool strategy, he knew how to deal with things, how to remain calm. And yet now he felt as if he was constantly being consumed by some fire, he was agitated, irritable, he couldn’t find his place – the Harem never felt less like home than now.

And now here he was, outside the bedroom in which he had spent endless nights...feeling like an intruder. He knew what he wanted to do; he wanted to rush in and take Ari into his arms and make love to him, protect him from what would happen to him in four days.

He dropped his hand and turned on his heel, away from Omarian’s chambers. He was a fool.

Instead he crossed through the floor, around the balcony and past Seraf’s library. In a narrow, dark corridor lit only by lamps on the walls, he knocked on a door. Seraf appeared in the doorway after a moment, dressed in a silky night-gown.

“Gus,” he smiled tightly, “I’m a little busy...”

Behind him, in the amber light of the sunset, Kater sat on the bed, satin covers wrapped around his shoulders, big hazel eyes looking at the door.

“I apologise, Leahil,” Gus said with formality, “Are you going to Dorocium? Has it been decided?”

Seraf inclined his head and on the bed Kater turned her face away, pained by knowing she’d have to bare her husband’s absence, “Just after sundown. After we’re finished,” Seraf said tightly, glancing back at Kater.

“I would like to come with you,” Gus said, head raise high. He was as tall as the Leahil. Seraf’s eyes widened.

“ _Gus,_ _”_ he hissed and grasped the ward’s arm, drawing him into his bedroom and shutting the door, “Don’t be a fool.”

“I’m serious, Seraf,” Gus said, eyes tired, “I’m losing my mind, if I stay here I will do something foolish. Already I attacked Gahr today-“

“You attacked Gahr?!”

Gus’ jaw clenched, “He was saying lewd things about Ari – _horrible_ things, Seraf-“

“I know,” Seraf squeezed his arm, “I know, but it’s important you be here, because I can’t be-“

“No,” Gus said desperately, “Please, Seraf, I _can_ _’_ _t._ I can’t be here, I can’t witness it, it will...,” he didn’t finish. _It will break me._ “If you won’t take me with you to Dorocium, then I’d like to ask for leave to return to Odelia.”

A memory floated in Seraf’s head.

He was twenty one and freshly Leahil, sitting on a pile of pillows during the celebrations of his first marriage. Everyone was drunk, _he_ was drunk, it was close to dawn and Burha was nowhere to be seen. Seraf sat alone, draining wine from a golden goblet. Then Omarian and Augustus collapsed next to him, holding hands and giggling breathlessly, having just finished yet another dance. They danced only with each other, it was impossible to separate them. They were ten and nine years old, fresh faced and excited. Arian’s curls were too long, his brown eyes too big. Gus’eyes were silver, his brown hair falling against his forehead fluffily.

 _“_ _One day,_ _”_ Ari gripped his friend’s hand in his own chubby one, beaming at his brother, _“_ _Gus and I will be married like you and Burha!_ _”_

Seraf smiled, _“_ _I_ _’_ _m sure you will._ _”_

Seraf released Gus’ arm.

“You can come to Dorocium,” he said, defeated, “You are a good soldier, I will be glad to have you at my side.”

Many things hung unsaid in the air. Seraf was about to spend the last hour with his love, before he’d go into battle. Their desire for a child was strong and they both hoped that Kattie was pregnant; and Seraf feared he wouldn’t return. Both of them knew that this was war.

And yet, an hour after sundown, they got on top of camels with a thousand men and poured through the gates of the Din-Moher Harem. Omarian didn’t come to say goodbye to either of them.


	16. Eyes in the Stone

**That same evening, across the ocean, winter.**

**Cervantes, Adanard, Beavnird.**

**The North Islands.**

Dusk. The last of the sun’s rays streak across the navy sky like the angry talons of a huge bird. Mannannan circles overhead, cawing at the starts twinkling into life against the backdrop of the winter sky; down below he sees fires burning among the huts of the inhabitants of Cervantes. In the forest behind the village, Gwydion stalks among the naked trees, his hooves making no sign, making no imprint in the snow – like the woman he had protected since youth, he would soon fade. Airmid sweeps silently through the same darkening forest, eyes glowing in the shadows, looking to hunt some poor animal who had not yet managed to find cover for the night. Bris has her head in Callian’s lap as the Druid stands vigil over the blue-burning fire in the heart of the village. Ogma, the fat wildcat, sits alone at the entrance of the village, the blue-marked pathway leading off into the darkness. He usually hates being alone and remains close to Callian, and yet now he sits and watches, standing guard. He knows.

The parade of exhausted and battered warriors floated through the forest like a funeral procession; the blue paint on their faces was dry and peeling, their eyes were tired, clothes and beards laced with the blood of enemies. On crudely made stretchers of sticks and wool they carried half a dozen wounded warriors. In Novum they had buried four of theirs, alongside the twenty eight of the natives of the village, and countless bodies of Odelians, thrown into a pit and left to rot and be pecked at by birds. Their dirty boots trailed over the blue paint that Cal and Orena had put down four days before.

Deep in the village the fire roared up suddenly, and Callian, who had been dozing off against Aeth’s shoulder, fell off the log he was sitting on before hurriedly scrambling to his feet. The old crones who had sat praying at his side looked up with wild eyes and Cal stood, gasping. He smelled blood in the air, the wind picked up. The world slowed.

Cal was Mannannan, watching the procession with their torches enter the village. He was Gwydion, in the doorway of Maganna’s hut, observing her frail chest rise and fall. He was Airmid as his ears twitched and he turned to return home, he was Bris, staring at a pale, redheaded boy, he was Ogma, watching the ghostly figures of the warriors trek past him. And then he was himself again.

Bris meowed at him from the ground and Callian broke into a sprint.

“What is it?!” the crones croaked after him, making the villagers hiding within their homes peek outside, “Are they back?!”

He heard the wild, joyful voices of the villagers before he reached the gates – people were pouring towards the returning warriors who, despite their exhaustion, grinned and took their lovers and children and friends into their arms. The injured were set down on the ground and swarmed by the people of Cervantes.

Callian sprinted through the village, shoved past the excited Dreiyards rushing to meet their brave men and women, his heart gripped by such anxiety that he wanted to be sick.

He saw Beorthion first, the Chief surrounded by animated villagers who asked him about his prowess in war. His beard was ragged, his eyes full of worry. There was no usual boasting from him, he wasn’t grasping cups of mead off the people and laughing and telling his tale. Behind him his daughter Feona was pale, anxious, standing nervously behind her father like a ghost. Callian saw Lug, Elthon, Ruan, Althreona, Rinne...

He slowed down. _Where is he?!_

“Father!” Wynna sprinted down the pathway, holding her long skirt in her hands, ankles exposed as she raced towards her family, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. She fell into her father’s huge arms, which finally made a gentle smile appear on his brutish face, “You’re back!” she sobbed, tears pouring down her pretty face, “Oh thank goddess! You’re back!” she grabbed her sister’s wiry arm and forced her into an embrace, her sobs floating towards the sky. Her eyes searched the warriors who were being offered food and drink and led towards the bonfire over her sister’s shoulder, and Cal’s eyes searched too, and neither of them saw him.

“W-Where...,” Wynna’s eyelids fluttered and she looked faint, “Where is-“

“Callian!” Feona spotted the druid who blended into the background, not special at all. There was harsh determination in her face as she grabbed the boy’s freckled wrist, “Here, we need you, Roan’s wounded-“

But Cal knew that already. He looked at the shadowed, moaning figures laying on the stretchers in the snow and suddenly he felt like a statue, he couldn’t move. Feona was stronger than him, pulling him along, and his heels dug into the ground. _No,_ he thought, _no, I don’t want to see him._ Dread made tears prick at his eyes and he squeezed them shut. Roan was dead, he was sure of it, or dying. As a cruel joke for all his confessions the Gods would make him watch as he died. Cal would see him with a gaping hole in his chest or his gut...it would have been better if Roan just died in the battlefield, if he never came home, if he was buried far away and Cal could forget...

All of his nightmares, all of his visions and worries, they had all been true.

People crowded around Roan, who laid on a stretcher almost as pale as the snow around him. His long blond hair was ashy and crusted with red and he was shirtless, a wolf’s fur thrown around his broad shoulders and another covering his legs. It didn’t cover the bandages tough, crudely wrapped around his abdomen and looping over one shoulder. Bandages dirty with mud. Bandages wet with snow. Bandages stained with blood.

“I’m fine,” his voice was faint as he waved them away, “I’m fine.”

Cal’s world tilted.

“Come on, druid,” Feona snapped, “Look to him-“

She didn’t even finish her sentence because Callian was on his knees in the snow, his legs soaking up the snow, ignoring the cold. The villagers glanced at each other, shocked when Cal started to feverishly run his hands over the bandages, inches away from touching them, his pale fingers trembling.

“O-Oh goddess,” the druid gasped feverishly, “I-It’s fine, it’s fine, I’ll heal you, it’s fine...”

He was panicking – now that he had seen Roan he was unable to look away. Everyone stared down at him and his sudden portrayal of emotion in shock.

Roan grinned. His eyes were half-open, tired and somewhat unfocused, “Didn’t know you cared, Cal.”

“S-Shut up!” the boy spluttered, eyes glazed over with tears. He fought a sob. He would not cry, not here, no matter how grave the wound was.

The tears fell themselves, Callian couldn’t keep them back. They slid down his cheeks and dripped off his chin and disappeared into the fur on Roan’s shoulder. The warrior’s eyes widened. Wynna turned away with a sob – if Callian was crying, it meant the situation was dire.

“Hey,” Roan grinned palely, “Hey, don’t cry. I mean, _do_ cry, this is lovely that you care, but-,” he reached for Cal’s face, his fingers covered in dirt and old blood – his, his enemies? - Callian was aware of all the eyes glued to the two of them, watching them with bated breath, so he jumped to his feet, shaking.

“Quick,” he ordered, wiping his treacherous eyes on his sleeve. Orena appeared at the edge of the crowd, a basket full of bandages and ointment looped over her arm, ready to attend to the other wounded who did not seem to be as badly hurt as Roan. Callian looked at Beorthion and Lug, “Bring him to my hut at once!”

“Is he that bad?!” Lug asked, worried.

“Shut up and bring him along!” Callian demanded. His timidness and nerves were gone, and he was speaking loud and clearly and men rushed to pick up Roan’s stretcher, not questioning him the way they didn’t question Maganna’s authority or Beorthion’s.

A hand gripped Cal’s arm as he turned to follow Roan towards his hut.

“Will he be fine?” Feona demanded, face close, eyes burning intensely. She was holding her crying sister up with her free arm.

“Yes,” Callian said firmly, though his heart was full of uncertainty, “I’ll save him.”

Roan laughed as he was being carried away, everything a nonsensical blur, “He’ll save me,” he proclaimed happily as he was carried off, “and then we will be married!”

Aeth appeared, a big oaf sticking above the other Dreiyards, “Cal,” he asked, “What’s going on?”

“Here,” Feona shoved Wynna into his arms and the girl clung onto the man, sobbing with abandon. Aeth looked down at her in surprise, and then awkwardly patted her on her narrow back, “I’m coming with you,” Feona told Cal.

“No,” he said, turning, “Eat, rest. I need to be alone with him.”

Despite saying that when Callian entered his hut it was filled to the brim with people fussing over Roan who had been moved from the soiled stretcher to Cal’s bed without permission. Among the neatly laid furs his huge, ragged form looked out of place.

“Out,” Callian commanded, whipping off his cloak. He threw his hand towards the fireplace and flames roared up, startling the Dreiyards closest to it. Cal rushed to the bed and the people parted for him. A gust of wind threw the doors open wide, “Everyone out!”

“He wants us to be alone,” Roan slurred, wiggling his eyebrows at Lug who was at his side. His best friend laughed faintly.

“Good thing you didn’t lose your humour.”

Callian ignored his remark. Beorthion looked at the druid with worry, “Don’t you need help?”

“There is nothing you can do.”

“What about Orena?” Uliah questioned from his place by the fire, “Surely her help-“

“There are other injured,” Cal snapped, “Every minute you ask stupid fucking questions is a minute less that I have to save him now _get out.”_

The Dreiyards looked at him for a second in stunned silence and Cal felt his face turn scarlet. Then they all rushed to the door, bowing and apologising to the druid. When the door slammed shut only Callian, Roan and the three wildcats were present.

Callian exhaled.

“Ginger,” Roan was looking at him sleepily, grinning, “Am I going to die?”

“Not if I can help it,” Cal grumbled, calming down now that he had some peace and quiet, “And then you owe me one.”

He pulled out jars of ointment, old dried herbs, preserved flowers, he poured water into a cauldron and threw it only the flames and it began to bubble abnormally fast. Airmid padded over with a book in his jaws and Cal plucked it free with a soft thankyou and carted through the pages as he laid everything out on the table, and then dragged the table over to his bed, knocking over parchments and cups.

Roan was barely conscious, his head lolling on his strong shoulders, eyes half-open and unfocused. Callian stifled panic, buried it beneath a metaphorical mountain in his mind. A calm descended on him. His wildcats lined up by the wall, patiently waiting for him to need them. Even Ogma was focused and still.

“Is it alright if I sleep?” Roan asked, slurring his words slightly. Cal looked at his face, at the blood in his beard and the dirt that streaked his face and the sweat that beaded on his forehead despite the fact that it was cold.

“Aye,” he replied softly, “Sleep.”

It was as if Roan was waiting for his permission because his eyes fell shut and he melted into the bed. Callian was very aware that the man could never wake up again, that this could be the reason he’d have to leave Cervantes, that he’d be chased out for being useless. But did he even want to stay if Roan wasn’t here?

 _Focus._ The stern voice in his head sounded eerily like Maganna. Outside Orena was instructing villagers where to place the wounded. The snow was dyed pink, the fire in the heart of Cervantes had lost its blue hue and burned a steady red and amber. Aeth sat on a log by it, playing a sad little tune on seashell. Wynna sat by his side, tear-tracks on her face, staring distantly into the flames.

But for Cal everything outside his door didn’t exist.

He stood up and with steady hands peeled back the messy bandages from Roan’s torso. As the layers fell away the blood darkened until it was almost black. The white cloth tumbled to the ground like a coiled snake. Callian was not squeamish; he performed sacrificial rituals on both prisoners and animals, treated endless rotting wounds. The severity of Roan’s wound struck him, not its appearance.

It was a clear cut, thank Sere, and it appeared as if someone had slashed Roan with a sword – the wound ran from the top of his ribs and diagonally across his stomach, almost to his hip. It wasn’t wide, but deep, rivers of blood running off of it and into the cloak Roan was laying on. Callian detached himself, forgot who he was treating, and inspected the injury. Odelian swords were made of good steel, smooth, but Cal worried that the cut would fester if left unattended. He was glad it was winter, and the cold stopped the process. Still, the wound was only a day or so old and Callian had time.

He lit a candle and placed it on the table he had dragged over. He dipped a cloth in the boiling cauldron and knelt beside Roan, pressing it to the cut, washing away the dirt and mud and dried blood surrounding it. The heat made fresh blood pour over Roan’s side but apart from a little murmur and a frown the blond did not react. He was feverish.

 _Wound first,_ Callian made a plan, _then the fever._

His freckled, pale hands dabbed at the slash until the skin around it was clean and the wound looked almost perfectly painted on. Whoever had done this to Roan had given him the mercy of not leaving any shards within the deep red. Cal just prayed it healed and didn’t become infected. He brought out a fold of clean cloth and first dipped it in the boiling water, the heat not affecting his hands, and then doused it in a bottle of moonshine. He pressed it down onto the wound.

Roan made an unhappy noise in his unconscious and his hand jerked out, grabbing Cal’s wrist. Even in this state he was strong and Cal hissed in pain, wrestling his hand free. The blond did not wake. Callian swallowed.

Bris padded over, fresh bandages clenched between her jaws.

“Thankyou,” Callian reached out and she dropped them in the druid’s palm. Her calm eyes seem to assure him that he was capable enough to do this.

With some difficulty and the help from the wildcats that provided Roan with new scratches on his back and sides, Callian managed to wrap the bandages all the way around him, tight, to prevent further blood-loss. With more grace and practice, he copied whoever had treated the warrior in the battlefield and looped the material over the man’s shoulder. Roan slept, his expression seemed more relaxed, his breathing deep.

Callian dragged over a basin of lukewarm water and dipped a new, clean cloth into it. He began to clean Roan; his face, his shoulders, his beard. He peeled off dried blood and caked on mud until Roan looked young and soft and clean. He really looked like he was sleeping. Cal pulled the soiled cloak from beneath the warrior and covered him with his quilt and fur before finally addressing the fever.

When he touched the man’s forehead it burned his hand. Cal swallowed and went outside, shoving a cloth in the snow until it was soaked and freezing. There were sounds of celebration in the distance, light from the heart of the village. Despite the wounded and the dire state of the future chief, the people still celebrated the return of the warriors. Aeth had walked Feona and Wynna to their house; their father attended the celebrations but the girls didn’t. Wynna stared absent-mindedly at the wall, praying under her breath. Feona, exhausted, fell asleep in her cot. Aeth hovered anxiously by the door.

“Please don’t leave,” Wynna said in a pathetic whisper, tears welling up. Aeth stayed.

In Cal’s hut the druid placed the cold cloth on Roan’s forehead, poured water into his mouth and then sat by the fireplace to mix a potion to help the warrior fight the heat from inside. His spirit guardians curled up around him, Ogma’s head on his folded legs.

Garlic, mint, caraway, feverfew, dyer’s greenweed, chestnut leaves. He crushed the ingredients in a stone bowl and then brewed it over the fire. It had gone past midnight when he sat again by Roan’s side again, and spooned the mixture into his mouth, wiping whatever slipped down his chin like a loving wife. Roan seemed peaceful, stable. Sometimes he muttered something nonsensical under his breath.

Callian left him to steal through the village in his cloak. The square at the centre was full of drunks singing victory songs and slamming together cups of mead. Cal stuck to the shadows and crossed all of Cervantes unnoticed, descending down onto the empty beach. The water twinkled a deep blue, the waves shifting calmly, chunks of ice floating among them.

Cal knelt at the edge of the water and sank his fingers into the wet sand. He closed his eyes and a chill seeped through his bones.

“You brought him back to me,” he breathed, “Now don’t let him die. Please.”

Exhaustion caught up with him as he dragged himself back home and by the time he got through the door everything was fuzzy around the edges. Roan was spread out across the bed, deeply unconscious and Cal barely had the time to shuck off his cloak and boots before he curled up on the floor by the man’s bed, eyes closing on their own. The last thing he felt was one of his wildcats – Airmid, he thought – dragging a fur over his body, and then he was asleep.

_He dreamt that he was in the sea, and it was warm around his legs. Maganna lowered him gently into the water, a gentle smile on her face. And she was healthy, the way he remembered her, the unyielding druid._

_A wet hand grasped his._

_“If the God Ferro wants to reject this marriage...”_

_Cal’s head turned. Next to him, floating in the water, was a skeleton._

Something woke him, something was wrong.  It wasn’t the nightmare. Callian sat up on the floor, heart pounding. The hut was full of shadows, the flames in the fireplace having died down to almost embers.

“Airmid?” Cal whispered, the fur sliding off him, “Bris? Ogma?”

There was no reply. The druid stumbled to his feet, disoriented, and clambered to the door. When he opened it he was met with eerily silence. The night was still and clear, a million stars winking down onto the village; people had retreated back to their homes. Somewhere far away the sound of pleasured moans carried through the air. Cal’s eyes focused on the moon up in the sky as he breathed hard and he charted its position; it was late, closer to dawn than to midnight.

 _Breathe,_ Maganna’s voice in his head again. Was it really her?

Cal slumped against the doorway and looked at the snow, the three sets of paws leading off into the forest. The wildcats had gone to hunt. Cal chuckled at his own paranoia and retreated into his hut. He tried to start the fire back up with his magic but he was too tired, and so he poked at the embers with his stick.

_Roan._

He remembered suddenly, and was awake instantly, dropping the stick like it was burning his hand. He turned to the bed and there he was, an amicable giant, asleep and seemingly too big for the bed.

_Asleep...or dead?_

Half-conscious and not thinking straight, Cal rushed to the bed, heart pounding.

“No,” he whispered and in his mind he saw the battlefield, he could _smell_ death. His hands danced over Roan’s bandages and he was too scared to touch him properly. He leaned over the man, and tears welled in his eyes. In an instant he was convinced that he was dead, “No, no, no,” he murmured feverishly. Hysteria swept over him. He threw a leg over Roan so he was on top of him, and gripped his face – cold, pale.

All Cal could hear was blood rushing to his head. The world tilted. He pressed his shaking fingers to Roan’s neck, searching for a pulse that he was too unsteady to find. He leaned in closer.

“Please,” his face was inches from Roan’s and he searched for a twitch, a tremble, anything to indicate that the man was still alive, “Please,” he whispered. He held his breath, and then felt Roan’s exhale against his mouth. Only then he noticed the rise and fall of his broad chest.

“Oh thank _gods,”_ Callian whispered shakily, dropping his head to Roan’s shoulder, hands against his chest. Sobs wrecked his body. Days of uncertainty, the intensity of saving Roan...it all washed over Cal and he didn’t have the energy to put up his protective front.

Roan’s eyes fluttered open. Where was he? His vision was a little fuzzy. The wooden beams above him, the herbs hanging off it, the smell of lavender and pine...it was all unfamiliar. There was a weight on top of him – a shaking weight that let out little sobs that sounded breathless and helpless – hair tickled his face, hands gripped at his chest. There was a dull ache on his torso.

Roan’s relaxed into the bed, realisation and memory dawning on him. He reached his arms up and curled them around the small body laying on top of his.

“Roan?!” Cal immediately tried to struggle free but even in his weakened state the huge warrior was stronger, crushing the druid against his chest.

“R-Roan let go,” Cal stuttered, suddenly embarrassed. This was _Roan Gallobhair,_ the future fucking Chief, and Callian was on top of him shamelessly as if they were close, as if they were friends.

With a groan of slight pain Roan rolled them to the side, trapping Cal between his own body and the wall, preventing his escape. Only then he pulled away and was met with the sight of Cal – puffy, red eyes, hair sticking everywhere, blotchy red cheeks. He looked like a scared doe. How many times during the battle had Roan thought about him exactly like this, pressed against him with his forever cold hands against his chest.

“R-Roan,” the druid looked away, embarrassed and uncomfortable. He sniffled but didn’t cry anymore, “You shouldn’t move. I should change your bandages.” He tried to sit up but Roan pulled him back down.

“Stop trying to run away,” the warrior said with a grin that he couldn’t stop; Callian was finally here, and he wasn’t going to let the redhead get away.

“Roan _please,”_ Callian said, exasperated, still not meeting his eye, “You’re hurt, I should-“

“You should just stay here,” Roan interrupted, and pressed his forehead against Cal’s. His hands gripped the boy’s face, which almost drowned in them. His eyes were scared, his heart started pounding violently.

“R-Roan...,” he stammered, and tried to weasel away, away from this heat in his gut, these overwhelming feelings in his heart. He had promised he would confess if Roan came back, if he survived, and yet now he couldn’t even fathom the words, he was petrified, he-

Roan’s eyes fluttered shut and he started stroking Cal’s flushed, freckled cheeks with such tenderness that Cal though he might just die.

“Thank you,” the bond whispered.

“Does it hurt?” Cal asked, biting his thin lip, “D-Does...I should have a look-“

“Shush,” Roan murmured, opening his eyes again. This time he looked right into Cal’s green depths, that looked like a forest in spring. Callian swallowed but the moment he met Ro’s gaze he couldn’t look away again, “I’m fine. It doesn’t hurt. Let’s just stay like this, I...,” his voice faltered, his thick eyebrows furrowed, “I really needed to see you,” he whispered with a vulnerability Cal had never seen in him, “I thought about you so much, especially after I got hurt. I kept thinking you were there with me. But you’re here now,” he smiled, “that’s all that matters. And you haven’t started hitting me yet,” he chuckled.

Callian sniffled again but offered him a shy, watery smile, “Shut up.”

Roan shifted an inch closer. Their noses brushed together.

“If I had known it took me almost drying to get you this close to me then I would have tried it sooner,” the warrior whispered, so quiet.

Cal’s heart twisted, “Shut up,” his hands were in fists, trapped between his and Roan’s chests, “Don’t you dare say that.”

Another inch closer together, this time it was Callian who moved, pulled by an invisible force that made it impossible to think about pulling away. One of Roan’s hands left Cal’s heated cheek and drifted down his body. He wrapped it around Cal’s waist, and his arm went almost all the way around the small boy, dragging him even closer.

Cal let out a breath that was a borderline gasp, their mouths were an inch apart. Cal looked up and saw Roan staring at him with burning intensity. Desire burned through Cal – strange, alien, consuming. He wanted, for the first time he wanted something so badly he felt feverish. He _wanted_ Roan so fucking badly, and yet he was holding back, a small voice in his head telling him this was all a joke, all a farce, that Roan was going to hurt him.

The warrior pressed the littlest, gentlest of kisses to Cal’s mouth – it was a peck, something completely unexpected. His mouth was warm, but the fever was subsiding. Callian’s eyes widened, and it took everything in Roan to not devour him. He tightened his arms around the boy’s waist and nuzzled his cheek. He wasn’t going to force him, no matter how badly he wanted this, if Cal wanted him back then-

The druid grabbed his face fiercely with his tiny hands that he had managed to free, and crashed their mouths together. It was so clumsy, and so full of passion. However his initial rush of bravery passed quickly and insecurity washed over Cal again – he didn’t know what to do, he didn’t know how to kiss, he just knew he _wanted_ to kiss Roan. He shivered and just stayed there, eyes squeezed tightly shut, lips pressed against the warrior’s.  

Roan pulled away, and Cal’s heart dropped.

“What are you afraid of?” the warrior asked.

Callian’s stomach dropped. _That you’ll reject me. That you’ll leave. That I will never be accepted or wanted or loved by anyone._

He flipped around hurriedly, pressing his forehead against the wall. He couldn’t look at Roan, not when he thought his heart would explode. The fire in the fireplace crackled back to life.

“Callian,” Ro’s arm was still around his waist and now it pulled the boy’s back against his chest. Cal squeezed his eyes shut and didn’t say anything even though Roan was squeezing him so hard it was almost painful; the druid could taste the desire the air, felt the hardness of Roan’s clothed member against the curve of his ass. _I need to move,_ blood roared in Cal’s veins, _I need to leave._

“Y-You need to let go.”

“How much longer are you going to deny me?” Roan asked, then swooped to kiss the back of Cal’s neck; he couldn’t stop himself, the cluster of freckles there was irresistible. Cal’s skin was so cold and Ro wished only to warm him.

Frustrated, the warrior turned the redhead back around easily. Cal gasped, finding himself face to face with the blond, and Roan winced as a shot of pain went through his gut. Callian had proved a great distraction from his predicament.

“Fuck,” the druid breathed and sat up, his hands fluttering over Roan’s pale face like the wings of a butterfly, “You’re too reckless, you’ll hurt yourself more-“

“I’m going to be fine, as long as you’re here to take care of me,” the warrior grinned. Cal sighed. He looked at Roan, relaxed on his bed, hair spread on the pillows. One of his huge hands rested on Cal’s thigh, covering it completely.

“Aren’t you glad I’m back?” Roan asked with sudden seriousness, “You seemed so happy to see me...or did I dream that up?”

“No,” Callian bit his lip, “I prayed for your return every day...,” his face flushed vividly, “I-I mean all of y-you!” he spluttered.

Roan smiled, a warm, fond smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle lovingly. Then he slid his hand off Cal’s thigh and took his hand and pressed it to his mouth.

“Whatever you say, Cal,” he murmured, eyes fluttering shut. He turned on his side and cradled Callian’s small, freckled hand to his chest. The druid looked at him in puzzlement and then realised what was happening.

“No,” he shook Roan’s shoulder and the warrior just squeezed his hand harder. The anxiety returned, “You can’t fall asleep-“

“Shush,” Ro kissed his hand again, “I’m tired.”

Callian clumsily laid down next to the man, jaw clenched, unsure of what to do. He was terrified that if he let Roan fall asleep again the man might not wake up...slowly, shyly, Cal leaned forward and pressed his mouth to the blond’s forehead – hot, but not as hot as before. Then he drifted down, and kissed him. In the fireplace the flames died down, and the room grew darker. When Cal drew back from his hesitant kiss Roan’s eyes were halfway open.

“Goodnight kiss?”

“Don’t sleep,” Cal whispered, “Please.”

Roan grasped his cheek in one of his hands, roughly, too tightly – he didn’t know how to deal with delicate things like Cal. He shifted closer to the druid though, and pressed their mouths together once more. Warmth blossomed through his body, curling through his muscles and thrumming through his veins. He forgot about his wound again and all he could focus on was Cal’s chapped, trembling lips.

Roan’s tongue slid against Cal’s sealed mouth – the boy let out a whimper, startled at the toe-curling shiver that went through him at such a small action, and opened his mouth on instinct. The warm, wet muscle slivered into his cavern and Callian’s hands automatically gripped Ro’s muscled shoulders.

“ _Mhmm,”_ his moan was muffled by the blond’s tongue that slivered and prodded and explored around Callian’s mouth, “W-Wait-,” the druid tried to pull away but Roan drew him back by the waist, intoxicated on the boy’s softness and pliancy, and pushed his tongue back into his mouth.

He kissed Cal harder, and the boy felt dizzy. He had never been kissed, and the fact that it was _Roan_ who was doing this made him tremble; insecurity snuck into his mind but every time it did Ro distracted him in a new way as if he could sense it – he’d place a hand on Cal’s hip, dip his fingers beneath his shirt, slide it further down, just above Cal’s ass, nibble on his bottom lip.

When the kiss ended Callian was breathless and red and panting, and Roan was watching him with a lazy smile.

“I waited so long for that to happen,” he admitted.

Cal blushed harder and dropped his gaze, “I-I don’t see why.”

Roan rolled on top of him, ignoring the sharp stabbing pain in his gut, and pinned the surprised druid to the bed. Before Cal could start questioning everything Ro attacked his mouth with the same ferocity he displayed on the battlefield. When Cal tried to protest and squirm free – because honestly this was all a little overwhelming – Roan just pinned his wrists harder to the bed, in a way that would later make Cal’s skin bruise, and thrust his tongue violently in his mouth. _Don’t run away,_ he thought desperately, _not now._ He forced Cal’s legs apart with his own and pressed his thigh against the druid’s crotch, smirking into the kiss when he felt the hardness there and earned himself a breathless gasp from its owner.

“R-Roan,” Cal squirmed when the blond abandoned his lips to kiss his neck instead. He had done thing many, many times with many, many people, but this was different, this made his blood sing in the same way that being in battle did, but it was somehow better, “S-Stop...,” Cal gasped, the gasp ending on a whine as he subconsciously grinded against Roan’s thigh. The warrior sucked bruises into his pale skin, “W-Wait... _nghh..._ j-just...”

He was breathless, and beautiful, and flushed. Roan had dreamed of him like this. Cal looked up at him with half-lidded eyes, panting and no longer trying to get away. He reached out and touched Ro’s bandage.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Roan huffed out a charming laugh and leaned down to nuzzle his nose against Cal’s, tickling him with his long hair, “Will you stop worrying?”

“You almost died,” Cal’s voice broke, “You were so close and I...”

“Would you have been sad if I died?” Roan asked, only half teasing. Callian turned his head to the side, embarrassed to admit the minutes he had spent feverishly praying for the man’s return.

Roan grabbed Cal’s chin and turned his face before kissing him deeply again. Cal melted.

“A-Are we...,” he paused, pulling away just enough so that his and Ro’s breaths still mingled together, “Are we g-going to...,” he couldn’t finish, blushing furiously.

Roan dipped his head and pressed a feather-light kiss to Cal’s shoulder. His tenderness surprised the druid; was this the way he was with everyone he took to bed? Why did it feel so goddamn special?

“I love you, you know,” Roan whispered.

Cal felt warmth spread through him and he made a surprised noise. Ro started laughing.

“Come on,” he sat back and looked down at the flushed boy, “You know this. I’ve _told_ you this.” He slid back down and started kissing Cal’s neck slowly, seductively, “I want you to be my wife,” he teased.

“Shut up,” Cal breathed. _Why is it always a joke?_

“What are the chances of me dying?” Roan burrowed his face in the redhead’s neck.

“I don’t know. You seem fine, but if you get an infection...I don’t know.”

“Would it be too much to ask,” Roan continued in a whisper, “for permission to make love to you right now. If I do die I don’t want to go before I get to make you mine.”

“How many people in this village are already yours?” Cal asked, bitterness creeping into his voice.

“None!” Roan pulled away from the boy’s neck, “Not the way I want you to be,” he proclaimed passionately.

The druid raised an eyebrow despite how shaky he felt, “Is that what you tell all your lovers?”

Roan’s expression darkened and in a swift movement he roughly pulled off Cal’s trousers. The boy squeaked and reached for them but Roan threw them aside.

“Hey!” the embarrassed druid sat up but Ro shoved him back down and grabbed his ankles in his huge hands, spreading his legs and settling between them. “H-Hey fucking w-wait -“

Roan shoved his hand into the druid’s undergarments. Callian froze and gasped, eyes wide. Roan ripped his underwear off him.

The druid immediately turned on his side, his shoulders and face burning. His shirt was long enough that it reached his mid-thighs but Roan rolled Callian onto his back forcefully and shoved the shirt up. His brute strength made Cal feel like a rag doll in his hands.

Roan pressed their hips flush together and grinded down his erection, covered in coarse trousers, against Cal’s exposed member, which was still rock hard.

“O-Oh-,” the druid gasped adorably and pushed at Roan’s chest. The blond grasped his delicate neck in one huge paw, “w-wait-“

He was losing control of his body, his head spun.

Roan gathered both of the boy’s wrists in one hand and pinned them above his head, causing his shirt to ride further up, and continued to rub himself against the druid, covering his body completely with his own. When Callian tried to tell him to slow down again, the blond shoved two of his fingers into the boy’s mouth.

The sight was obscene and Callian looked at Roan with big eyes, but the blond just pushed the digits further in, feeling the boy’s tongue slide against them.

“Suck,” he growled into the boy’s ear, biting at his earlobe. Callian whined like a cat, hips bucking up on their own accord, seeking the delicious friction of Roan’s cock.

To Ro’s surprise, Cal did as he was told, closing his small mouth over the man’s fingers and sucking, his tongue shyly prodding at them before becoming more daring the more Roan rubbed against him.

Roan lapped at Cal’s neck like a hungry wolf and pulled his hand free, trailing it down Cal’s body. The boy’s wrists were slack in his grip and he was just panting in pleasure.

Ro slid his hand down the redhead’s hard cock.

“W-Wait-,” Cal gasped as Roan reached lower, he tried to close his legs but couldn’t because the warrior was between them, “I-,” he didn’t get to finish because Roan pushed a finger inside him, “ _Ah!”_ Cal cried out and threw his head against the pillow, eyes shut.

It burned, Roan had big fingers, but Callian had done this to himself before and the feeling wasn’t all-together unfamiliar. Pleasure sizzled through him and he no longer felt scared or insecure or had the need to push the blond away.

Roan was angry – angry that Callian through that his words weren’t true, that he acted like he wasn’t the most precious thing to the blond – but he also desperately wanted to make Cal feel good, to show him that it was alright to feel desire, and to be desired.

The feeling of Callian clenching against his digit made a fire burn through the warrior and he wanted to just shove his prick inside the redhead, but knew that would be a terrible idea. Already Cal seemed overwhelmed, shaking, the pale skin of his stomach as flushed as his face and shoulders. When Roan pushed another wet finger inside him, the fire in the fireplace flared up and the boy let out the most beautiful moan, back arching.

“ _Ohmygod,”_ he blurted on one whiny, high-pitched breath. His hands squirmed in Roan’s grip so the blond released them, surprised when one of them drifted down to grip the wrist between his legs, “ _Nghh...,”_ he whimpered when Roan spread his fingers inside him, and he opened his green eyes, looking up at the warrior pleadingly, “R-Roan,” he panted.

“Fuck,” the man groaned, and started kissing his neck, interlacing the fingers of their free hands together, “Fuck, I love you. You know that? You know how much I fucking love you?” He whispered feverishly.

“R-Roan,” Cal whined, thighs trembling. Tears welled up in his gorgeous eyes and he thought he would just break down crying. Roan moved his fingers inside him and it made him feel like a melted puddle of heat – it was intense, and overwhelming, and so, so good.

The druid seemed so tiny and Roan didn’t want to hurt him, and so he forced a third of his thick fingers into his hole. Cal choked on a sob, toes curling. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ It felt so good. The only thing Callian could think about was the warrior above him.

Some sense returned into the blond and he withdrew his fingers. Cal’s thighs continued to tremble, and with his dry hand the future Chief brushed the boy’s hair from his sweaty forehead and kissed it.

“I want to be your first,” he whispered, lips brushing against Cal’s forehead, “I want to be your _only,”_ he added, more adamant.

Blood had seeped through his bandages and Callian noticed. His brows furrowed and yet his brain could grasp at little of reality.

“I don’t want you to die,” he whispered.

Roan felt no pain, “I won’t,” he unlaced his breeches with his wet hand, “I promise I won’t.”

He couldn’t imagine it. Death. It seemed such a faraway notion; when he had been hurt in Novum, after his adrenaline had seeped away and he was carried on the stretcher and the crows had circled overhead...then death had seemed so near, walking alongside him. Now, with a fire burning in the pit of his stomach and the sight of the boy he had wanted for so long lying beneath him, hard and willing and happy he was home, he couldn’t imagine every dying.

“I love you,” he whispered hoarsely, “So much.”

Callian slid his pale legs around the man’s waist and tugged him closer. He was unsure of what to do but the way Roan’s eyes burned into him as if he was the only thing that mattered in the world made him never want to separate from this man.

“I want you,” he mumbled, not knowing what else to say. He didn’t know how to be arousing or appealing or wanton, he knew he was too pale and too lanky and too awkward and there was nothing sexy about his sticking-out elbow and pointed nose and freckly chest. But to Roan he was more than enough, he was _everything._

This time Roan pining him to the bed roughly didn’t surprise Cal, he was getting used to the fact that Ro couldn’t control himself at times and welcomed the ache of being held too tightly. He watched with bated breath as the future Chieftain slid his cock out of his breeches, and it was just as huge and majestic as the rest of him, thick with a patch of golden hair at the base. Callian found himself staring at it, at the way Roan spat in his hand and rubbed it over and he trembled in anticipation.

Clarity returned to Callian the moment Roan’s cock pushed into him. The first inch hurt so badly that the gasp of pain that built up in Cal’s throat died in his mouth. His hands grabbed the furs beneath him, fingers digging into them, and his whole body stiffened.

But Roan was too lost in bliss to notice. His huge cock was miraculously being accepted by Cal’s small body the way he had dreamed countless times before. He pushed in, inch by inch, and every of those inches was filled with ecstasy. His fingers dug into Callian’s naked hips visible beneath his shirt.

“ _Yes,”_ he gasped, “Fuck.”

When he was halfway inside Cal’s voice returned in the form of a pathetic, pained whimper. Roan’s eyes, that had closed on their own accord, snapped open and he stilled. He took in the sight of his precious druid, the one who moments ago had been hard and panting for him, and now had eyes full of pain and tears, and was biting his lip so hard it was beginning to bleed.

_You’re hurting him._

“Oh God,” Roan withdrew from the heavenly heat of Cal’s body swiftly, and the boy whimpered again, turning on his side, “Fuck,” Ro covered the druid’s body with his own, panicking, “I’m sorry,” he kissed his freckled shoulder, “I’m so sorry, Cal.”

“No, _I’m_ sorry,” Callian echoed back, staring hollowly at the table he had dragged to the bed, “I’m useless. I can’t do it.”

Roan huffed out a relieved laugh, “Don’t be stupid,” he rolled Cal back over onto his back, “This is your first time, it won’t be perfect,” he winced at the dull ache in his stomach, “I have to say I’m not at the top of my game either.”

Callian cracked a smile, “You’re amazing,” he whispered, then realised what he said. His face turned scarlet, “I-I mean,” he spluttered, “I-I mean y-you’re okay! You’re decent, I-I’m sure I’ll h-have much better in the future...”

Roan was chuckling when he captured his mouth in a kiss. Cal slumped against the pillows.

“You will have to relax,” Ro murmured, “If you want this to happen. It’ll take a few tries.”

Roan had taken enough virginities to know what to do, and now that his love for Cal had stopped making him forget himself, he tried again. On the third try he sheathed himself almost all the way inside the redhead whose pained whimpers were replaced by shallow breaths and little hisses of pain. By the time Roan heard the quiet _move,_ the fire had almost died out.

In the almost-darkness of the hut the warrior gripped the headboard of the druid’s bed with one hand, and held his hip in the other, and stared intensely into the eyes of the boy as he slid in and out of him.

The burning pain gave way to an aching discomfort and after several minutes of panting and hearing Roan’s low, growly moans that sounded like a bear’s, the first pricks of pleasure climbed up Cal’s spine.

He relaxed into the bed, gasping. He focused on the fact it was Roan who was fucking him, his cock hot and hard as it entered him over and over. When Cal looked up and saw the man’s eyes focused only on him, his limbs melted.

“Better?” Roan asked, trying to hold himself back. Never had he been so gentle with someone before – he liked to fuck the way he fought; fiercely. And yet now what he feared most was hurting Cal again.

But the druid nodded, biting his lip, “A-Almost good,” he whispered.

Roan laughed, “Almost?” he thrust in a little harder and Cal gasped loudly, legs tightening where they were back against the warrior’s waist. For the first time he dared to look at where they were connected and in the semi-dark saw Roan’s huge cock disappear inside of him; the sight made him whine needily, like a cat in heat.

“ _Fuck,”_ Roan kissed him heatedly and his levelled thrusts stuttered, and then sped up. He started to fuck into Cal roughly and the druid first tensed up and then relaxed again, accepting the onslaught of pain mingled with delicious pleasure.

“ _Nghhh,”_ he tried to keep his moans at bay even though each time Roan entered him he felt his body burn, “G-Gods...t-that’s...that’s a lot, I-I... _ah..._ R-Roan I... _o-oh...”_

Roan greedily drank up each of the sounds that spilled from the druid’s mouth, committing them all to memory. He shoved the last few inches forcefully into the boy when he decided he was ready and Callian cried out. The warrior grasped one of his thin legs and threw it over his shoulder, speeding up his thrusts.

“W-Wait-,” Cal whined, and Roan pinned his bruised wrists on either side of his head. Cal let out a borderline sob, “P-Please i-it’s too much, I...,” somewhere along the way the pain had ebbed away and the pleasure washed over Cal like the waves of the sea, each one bigger than the last, drowning him in something he couldn’t quite grasp or explain, “Roan...R-Ro... _please...”_

He didn’t know what he was asking for and Roan drank up his desperation eagerly.  Every slam of his cock made bliss rush through both of them. Roan himself was overwhelmed by the pleasure of Cal’s intense tightness and felt he was close. He reached out and grabbed the druid’s cock.

“No!” Callian gasped, struggling in Roan’s grip. The man released one of his wrists and the boy reached down to try and stop his hand, “N-No don’t, I’ll-“

Roan fucked him harder, and the boy’s protests dissolved into a mess of whiny moans and helpless sobs. His leg slid off of Roan’s broad shoulder and he dragged the blond closer as the man pumped him, clawed at his back and kissed him messily, then arched up and splattered the bandages with his semen – the fire roared in the fireplace.

Roan wasn’t far behind.

“Not i-inside,” Cal whimpered, shaking from the after-shock.

“You won’t get pregnant,” Roan grunted, thrusts turning sloppy. He sucked on Cal’s neck, “Though I wish you could,” he whispered feverishly, “I wish you could have my babies, our babies, fuck, Cal, you’re mine-“

He emptied inside the trembling druid, then laid there panting, his weight on top of Cal.

The redhead stared at the ceiling. Outside his wildcats mewled, begging to be let in.

_I need to change the bandages._

**The following morning, across the Wind Straits.**

**Castle Darmont, Crasbury, Wildeshell.**

**Kingdom of Beauralt.**

****

Lysander’s eyes opened slowly, sleepily. The fireplace was out, the room was freezing. The man slid further underneath his furs, pulled them up underneath his chin and sighed.

Darmont was silent. It was early, outside it was snowing heavily but Lys couldn’t see that, his heavy curtains were drawn shut over the windows but morning light slid in past the gaps, grey. _Everything_ in Wildeshell was grey and Lys was tired of it, it sickened him to his stomach. Grey people, grey buildings, grey skies and grey seas. Only Sef was like a ray of light in Lysander’s life.

 _I need to apologise,_ Lysander closed his eyes, exhausted, _I need to see him and apologise and make things right._ He felt hollow, anxiety and regret filled his body, this terrible feeling that he had ruined something wonderful was more crushing than his mother’s sharp words ever were.

It had been three days since he had uttered those horrifying words in the Great Hall, and he had asked to see Sef multiple times since then but his Voubren guards at his door were no longer as lenient as they had been and Lys was forbidden to even leave his room.

He hadn’t bathed or changed his clothes in three days, he just laid in his bed and stared at the wall, barely ate and mulled over what he had done. What now? Was Sef going to destroy all of Wildeshell? Would he execute Lys? The waiting was making him nauseous.

Lysander turned around and stared at the windows; when had they become so strange, so alien to him? His bedroom didn’t feel like his, his _skin_ didn’t feel like his. Somewhere along the way Darmont truly had become a prison, all of Wildeshell had become a prison, a kingdom destined for disaster, with no way out. There was nothing Lys could do to get out of this situation, he would die a grey death in disgraced Wildeshell and for what?

He remembered the day that Horness was burned. He had sat on the rocky shore and stared at the sea, and now he wanted nothing more than to be there again, to feel the wind in his hair and breathe in the fresh air. There was an itch under his skin that he could not scratch.

Quiet, it was so quiet. Wind howled outside, beating at the windows and making the glass tremble but apart from that Lys might have as well been the only person left in the world. The eerie silence of the Castle made him anxious.

_Why was it so silent?_

Lysander sat up, his head hurting from all the hours he had slept. He slipped out of bed, his bare feet touching the cold stone floor. He put on some slippers, wrapped a fur around his trembling shoulders and padded to the door. His breath made a cloud in front of his face but Lys didn’t have the energy to light a fire in the fireplace. He touched his hand to the painted wood of his door, then reached for the doorknob. He would ask to see Lys again.

He pulled open the door and stood in the door and frowned. If this castle could see it would witness Lys’ pale face peeking out of the doorway with confusion marring his features as he took it in. It was empty. The Voubren guards were gone.

“What...,” Lysander breathed. He felt like he was in a dream, or like he didn’t exist at all. He floated down the corridor, the stones seemed to have eyes, watching him.

He met no-one in the halls. As he passed the windows the Lord saw the flurry of white petals beating against the castle and when he pressed his face against the glass he saw the fields and distant forest all drowned in white. He descended the stone steps by the baths, drifted past the abandoned library, down again and around his mother’s apartments, down again by the Imperial Hall...

He saw no Voubren, no Beaus. _Maybe I am the last person on earth._ He hugged himself tightly, trying to instil some warmth into his bones but he could not seem to warm himself.

He entered the Imperial Hall and somehow was still shocked by what he saw even though he had been beginning to understand. Maybe he had thought Sef was playing a prank on him, that all the people were amassed here and the King would laugh at Lys’ puzzlement and take him into his arms and kiss him and tell him he forgives him.

But it was a foolish, naive fantasy.

The Hall had been stripped of all its decorations; it’s masks and tapestries on the walls, the rugs on the floor, the golden goblets and the laughing, exotic people – all gone. It was once again grey. Lysander stared. Then he walked in, and he seemed awfully small in the emptiness.

 _Had I dreamt it all?_ He took a step towards his throne that no longer felt his, that seemed to have the ghost of Sef – grinning, looking at him with shameless desire – imprinted in it.

 _He’s gone,_ Lysander’s throat closed up, _He left._ The sky outside wasn’t dark with smoke, life continued in the villages. Sef had taken his things and his people and sailed away into the mist, as quickly and quietly as he had appeared. And he had left Lys behind. _No, I forced him out._ Lys’ knees trembled, his lip wobbled. He wanted to cry.

 _I’m alone, I’m all alone again._ The absence of Sef’s love, his attention and affection made him feel like a child again, surrounded by strict, heartless adults. He was a child who never saw his father, who had no siblings to run through the fields with, who was never hugged and loved by his mother or by anyone. He was respected, he was liked, but he had never been loved...not until Sef. And now he and all that love that he had been unabashedly brimming with, was gone.

Life didn’t truly make much sense anymore, and Lysander couldn’t imagine returning to the grey reality he had lived in.

Footsteps sounded behind him, echoing through the empty Hall. When Lysander turned around he saw his mother – he hadn’t seen her in days and the sight of her didn’t evoke any emotion. Her dark hair, streaked with grey, was pinned back and she wore a long verdant dress; Lys couldn’t remember the last time he saw his mother wear colour and yet now the woman’s eyes were bright and frenzied.

 “Lysander!” she whispered feverishly, rushing to her son, mouth tight, “Look at you!” The Lord Protector stood there like a lost lamb. His hair was greasy, dark circles beneath his eyes, he was so pale he looked see-through, a ghost not a man. “You are a King now!” the woman seized his wrist, “How can you parade around your castle in your night clothes!”

“They’re gone,” Lys said dully, “The Voubren. Sef.”

“Good,” Estania hissed, “Good. This is _good_ Lysander. Finally you can show your strength, you can salvage it all. You are a King now, a King of Wildeshell and you can be just like your father, you can save your honour. Forget that wretched man, just as you have forgotten that stable boy!” a feverishness burned in Estania’s face, “We can fix all of this.”

She grabbed her son’s wrist – perhaps the first time in years she had voluntarily touched him – and dragged the dazed man through the Castle. She no longer cared about his appearance; the Privy Council had gathered back where they belonged, in the Concilliar Room, and her home was no longer occupied by devils; Estania Harkness would see order restored.

The Concilliar Room was full of excited chatter rather than the usual arguing and fighting; the Lords stood around the world map and pushed figures around eagerly, pointing and exclaiming and nodding their heads, eyes twinkling. The occupation was over, and they were happy, though to Lys, who had grown accustomed to seeing them gathered around the well in the chapel, they seemed out of place.

“Your highness,” after weeks of meeting in secret Lys’ undressed state didn’t faze them and they bowed.

“Please,” Lysander said quietly, “I’m no King.”

“Thank you for bringing him, my Lady,” Lord Rassel smiled at Estania who stood by the door. The Masters looked at her expectantly, she didn’t move, “You may leave now.”

The woman’s mouth clenched, “This is an important meeting, I deserve to be present.”

The Masters exchanged glances and Archbishop Rochon spoke, “My Lady, women have no place in this Council. Now please.”

Fuming, Estania muttered _my Lords,_ and exited the room, ensuring the door slammed after her. None of the Masters paid her fit any mind, turning excitedly to Lysander, who stared at the map. The golden figures of the Voubren were no longer present anywhere in Beauralt, and the blue skeletal king stood on Castle Darmont, its golden companion gone. Lysander wanted to cry if only to ease the pain in his chest.

“What happened?” he asked, devastated.

“It must have been last night or early this morning,” Baralthol said excitedly, “They were very quiet, the Voubren, gathered their belongings and disappeared like ghosts. Went to Farnore, they say, boarded their ships and faded into the mist. Gone, just like that, didn’t burn a single village on the way.”

“Why?” Lysander whispered.

“It doesn’t matter!” the Archbishop scoffed, “The sinners are gone and that is all that matters. We should draft a letter to King Ormond asking him to accept us back into his grace.”

Lysander looked at Lord Patran. The man, who always appeared homeless, looked even more rugged now, and anxious, “I can have it sent by tonight, my Lord,” he said timidly, “Unless it is your wish for Wildeshell to remain independent...”

It was in that moment, with a dull kind of detachment, that Lysander realised he didn’t give a fuck about Wildeshell. He was supposed to slide back into his role and continue trying to save what was essentially a grouping of a few poor villages, he was supposed to rule a divided country with his selfish Masters, he was supposed to listen to his mother’s hateful words and marry a grey girl who would fit into his grey life, and then have a son who would inherit this terrible, terrible weight of ruling a forsaken, forgotten piece of land.

He had fought so hard for a piece of land. Lord Protector Lysander Harkness, who had led the siege of Berness, who would undoubtedly be hailed as the man who withstood the assault of the Voubren.

The truth was all he did was sit by a fire and tell stories and wear masks and kiss. He didn’t want to be a King, he wanted to be a poor peasant boy somewhere in the hills, free to love Sef.

 _I love him,_ he wanted to scream as his Masters celebrated his absence, _I love him._ Could they not hear his heart breaking?

“Did he leave anything?” he asked softly, interrupting the Masters as they spoke. They all stared at him in puzzlement as if only now seeing his crestfallen expression. Lys cleared his throat, “Did the King leave an explanation?”

“Ah yes!” it was as if Patran just now remembered. He reached into his sleeve and pulled out an envelope – pale, creamy, one of Beauralt’s, “Apologies, my Lord, in this havoc I forgot!”

Lysander took the letter from him and held it loosely at his side, “Let us take a recess,” he said.

“But Lord-,” the protests began, but Lys didn’t want to hear them. He let himself out of the oppressive Concilliar Room in which he had made so many decisions, in which he had found out his father had died, in which he had been kissed by the man he loved for the first time.

His bedroom felt empty and cold when he returned to it – nobody had fed the fire. The Lord climbed back into his bed which still retained some warmth from the night, though little, and shivering opened the letter, the last love letter. The familiar handwriting made tears fill his eyes.

_To my dearest Lysander._

_Do not think I do not love you, because I do, I always will, with all my heart. I could never love anybody even half as much as I love you, which is why this is so hard. You hurt me. You hurt me more than blades or arrows or poison, you cut my heart into tiny pieces. Your words in the Hall I will never forget._

_But alas, like the fool I am, I still wholeheartedly adore you. You, Lysander, are an enigma, a mystery, a beautiful diamond that reflects a million colours if you hold it up to the light just right. I thought I could be your light._

_Perhaps it is my love, or your proclamation in the Hall, that make me unable to try and force you into this marriage any longer. You prove more stubborn than I anticipated and I cannot fight you forever. I am tired; of rejection, of confusion, of uncertainty. This is why I am returning to Voubrenia, where I will marry my sister before the year is up. I apologise for not saying goodbye in person but I feared that may prove too hard._

_I wish you all the best – prosperity, health, happiness. I wish that one day you love somebody as hopelessly and wholly as I love you. Perhaps if it is your pleasure you will write to me sometimes._

_I am sorry for ever hurting you._

_With love, always,_

_Sef._

Lysander cried for a long time, clutching the letter to his chest. Outside the world was dark and a snow-storm blew in from the north. By nightfall the man was trembling and exhausted and coughing from the cold. Nobody had come to ignite the fireplace; he was forgotten in his own ‘home.’

A pitiful king.

Finally, after an eternity, Lys picked himself up off his bed. He sat at his desk and with a trembling hand dipped his quill into the ink-well.

_My dearest Lord Rassel, and Barry._

_There is something I must confess..._

**Far away, winter.**

**The Tekosh Wall, Baijin Patch, Tekoshi.**

**The Mairi Empire.**

****

Time passed slowly at the East Side of the Wall, so far away from the comforting warmth of where the two Guardians were usually stationed; here a flurry of snow befell from the dark skies at all times of the day, and the air stabbed your lungs when you breathed. A true punishment.

“...so then the sea-captain says to the monkey-“ Miko’s merry voice carried over the evening breeze, and Kei slapped his hand over the smaller boy’s mouth.

“Shut up,” he groaned, “The sea-captain says shut up. You’ve said the same joke _eight times.”_

Miko shrugged when Keito dropped his hand, “I only know three jokes.”

“They’re not funny the second time round. Or the eighth. Actually your jokes aren’t funny at all.”

Miko shrugged, unfazed.

Somehow it seemed that the kiss a week ago had broken some barrier between the two; when they met up on the Wall for their next duty there was a lightness in the air between them, a banter that had not existed before. Tension had eased away, replaced by more friendly bickering and an excess of shoving each other, as if their hands seeking to touch the other. The kiss was unspoken of.

For a moment both the men were silent, staring at the flickering lights of the torches far below, casting golden shadows on the untouched snow.

“Are you leaving soon?” Miko asked absent-mindedly.

Keito blinked, “The punishment doesn’t end for ages...”

“No,” Miko looked at him with his much too big, doe-like eyes, “I mean leaving the Wall.”

Kei swallowed, “Uh...no.”

“Why? You’re good. You’re a good fighter. You’re also an asshole but I’m sure people are still eager to employ you.”

“Yeah, well...,” Kei couldn’t tell him the truth, that it was Miko who was keeping him here.

“I wish I was a good fighter,” the small Guardian mumbled distractedly, staring at the snow, “Then at least I wouldn’t be stuck here forever.”

“You’re not,” Kei said quickly, the distantly sad expression on Miko’s face somehow upsetting him. He wanted to brush the snow from his dark hair, “You’re a very good archer.”

Miko smiled faintly, “People don’t need archers. People need big, strong men like you to protect their precious daughters and their chickens,” he punched Kei’s shoulder playfully. Kei punched him back. Miko swayed.

They were silent. Then;

“You won’t be here forever,” Keito said.

“Yes I will,” Miko smiled, “It’s alright, deep down I don’t think I mind. Though it would be nice to see Reno or Aki or...”

Silence. _Tommy._

Kei swallowed, didn’t take the bait. He didn’t care who had let Tomoya out, not really, “Yeah. You’ll be lonely.”

“Yeah,” Miko’s eyes were sad, “When you leave I’ll have practically no friends.”

“Friends?!” Keito spluttered, “Who the hell said we were friends?!”

But Miko wasn’t listening because he was suddenly alert, eyes wide as he leaned forward between the battlements, “Someone’s down there!” he said. Kei leaned forward too.

Sure enough, a dark shadow was breaking up the golden light of the flames.

“Maybe it’s a scavenger-,” Kei started, and then he saw another shadow. Then another. “Fuck!” he reached for the gong to his left to signal attackers. When he slammed it a loud, deep noise resonated through the night air.

Miko, on the other hand, reached for the arrows strapped to his back. His fingers were somewhat frozen but he managed to cock an arrow in his bow. He focused on one of the zigzagging shadows, predicted where it would head next, and fired.

Despite the long distance, the arrow hit home and the shadow stilled.

Miko grinned. The echoes of the gong. Deep inside the Wall, the shouts of men as they mobilised.

Then arrows, shooting through the sky, heading for the battlements. Panic. Fear. Miko ducked and the arrows haphazardly embedded themselves in the stone – sharp, beautiful; the arrows of the Shairin.

Keito was still hitting the gong with a tight expression on his face; arrows flew towards him.

“Get down!” Miko screamed, “Get down you idiot!”

A wind picked up, howling, and Kei didn’t hear. Below more enemies rushed out of the dark night. Miko ran towards Keito along the frozen wall – slipped, fell heavily against the other Guardian, sending them both to the ground.

The gong stopped ringing, its sound echoing through the Empty Land.

Miko was on top of Keito, their faces inches apart as they panted into each other’s mouth, eyes wide and full of shock. For a moment Miko forgot the attack, he forgot everything. They stared at each other, the world fading away.

They moved together, leaning towards each other until their lips met in a messy, clumsy kiss. Miko exhaled into Keito’s mouth and their tongues slid together, trying to force their way into each other’s mouths. Keito tangled his gloved hand in Miko’s hair, forced the boy closer. It was a rough kiss; their teeth clashed and they bit at each other’s lips, and then an arrow landed next to their heads and they sprung apart, remembering themselves.

“Come on!” Miko jumped to his feet as Kei remained on the ground, shell-shocked. The small Guardian prepared another arrow as down on the ground other Guardians poured into the snow, swords drawn.

Miko tried to ready another arrow with his trembling, frozen fingers but the kiss had left him shaky, and then felt a sharp stab in his left shoulder. He looked up and arrows were raining on them, and one was sticking out of his flesh.

 _Oh._ Miko registered it slowly.

“Idiot!” Keito shouted and dragged Miko to the ground. The faint, distant throbbing spread from Miko’s shoulder and through his body – first warm, then hot, then burning.

“O-Ouch,” he whimpered, blood seeping through his shirt.

Keito half-dragged him back up, choked by panic, “Come on,” he yelled and pulled the hurt boy along the Wall, ducking under the attack that was already beginning to lessen, “Come on, come on...,” he got to the entrance leading into the Wall and within moments they were surrounded by stone and safe from enemy attack.

“Where are we going?” Miko’s voice was an octave higher, a little hysterical as he kept staring at the arrow protruding from his shoulder.

“Medical bay _obviously_ ,” Keito grunted and hauled Miko along the corridor. They could hear shouts and the clanking of metal resonating through the Wall, but saw no-one along the torch-lit halls.

Thankfully the Medical Bay wasn’t far; unfortunately it was empty.

The grey oval room had a few narrow beds separated by strips of cloth, washing basins and several shelves of ointments, herbs and potions. But the doctor was nowhere to be seen.

“Fuck,” Keito dumped a hyperventilating, pale Miko on the closest bed, “Where’s that bastard gone?!”

He didn’t expect or wait for a reply, fuelled by his fear for his – friend? Enemy? He didn’t know what he and Miko were anymore. Frantically the man searched through the shelves; he found gauze and antiseptic and a bottle of dark rum that definitely had other purposes past healing.

“W-Where’s the doctor?” Miko’s hand fluttered around the arrow but he was too afraid to touch it.

“I don’t know,” Keito knelt in front of the boy, and shoved the rum into his hand, “Drink. I’m going to pull the arrow out.”

“No you’re not!” Miko protested, high-pitched.

Keito didn’t wait for permission. With one hand he shoved Miko down onto the bed by his good shoulder, and with the other he grabbed the shaft of the arrow, his knee pressing down on Miko’s stomach.

The boy just had time to gasp as Keito ripped the arrow free. The wound spurted blood. Miko’s eyes widened.

“W-What-“

“Shush,” the bigger Guardian worked quickly, not letting Miko comprehend what was happening as he poured antiseptic on the wound. The boy cried out in pain but Keito ignored it, pulling the boy into a sitting position – the small Guardian took that opportunity to take a swig of the rum. Keito quickly pulled Miko’s coat off, shoving his kimono down so it pooled around his waist, revealing his slim, pale chest.

“W-What are you doing?!”

“Saving your life,” Keito gritted, and started to wrap the bandage around the bleeding wound. Then Miko burst into tears, dropping the bottle of rum onto the bed. Keito swayed backwards, shocked.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asked, staring at the fat tears that fell from Miko’s dark eyes. He had never seen the boy cry before.

“I-I’m scared,” Miko sobbed. He was tired. He had been brave during Tomoya’s escape, and when he had to search for his body, and when Aki and Reno left, and during his long hours on the East Wall. And now he was just scared, “I-I don’t want to die.”

“You won’t die, idiot,” Keito groaned, returning to tying the bandage, “It’s just a small wound. Stop crying, how old are you?!”

“I-I can’t,” Miko’s lip trembled, “I’m so scared.”

“ _Shut up,_ Miko. Gods, you’re such a baby-“

“What?!” the boy yelled, snot running from his nose, “Can I not be scared this _once?!”_

“I’m in love with you,” Keito snapped, tying the bandage off.

Miko stared at him, sobs dying in his throat tears silently falling down his cheeks, “W-What?”

Keito sighed. It had seemed like a good thing to say to calm Miko down...and now the realisation of what he had said dawned on Kei. It wasn’t a lie. Miko stared at him. “Yeah,” Keito muttered darkly, bitterly, with no more bandage to distract him, “I’m in love with you. Have been for a while.”

Miko sniffled, “Really?”

“Fuck you mean really?!” Keito was getting pissed, and embarrassed. He snatched the rum up and took a big gulp, feeling it burn down his throat, “Of course really! Why would I lie about that?!”

“O-Oh...,” Miko sat on the bed with his hands folded in his lap, wound throbbing. “But...,” he frowned, “You’re so mean to me.”

“Yeah, well,” Keito shrugged, looking away and rubbing his neck awkwardly, “Can’t exactly get your attention otherwise. Not like I can go up to you and kiss you, y’know.”

“Why not?” Miko questioned.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” Keito yelled, “Because it’s illegal! Because we’d get executed.”

“No,” Miko wiped his nose on his sleeve and looked at Kei with weirdly innocent eyes, “I mean...why can’t you kiss me now?”

Keito stared at him. His stomach was all in knots. He kind of wanted to puke.

“W-What?”

“There’s nobody around. You could kiss me right now.”

“Y-You w-w-want me to k-k-kiss you?!” Keito’s face burned fiercely red.

Miko shrugged, “Why not? You love me, right? And we just did it on the Wall.”

“I...,” Keito swallowed. The pressure was crushing, “it’s not that easy, Ondera.”

Miko grabbed him by the flaps of his jacket and drew him close and kissed him clumsily. Kei’s eyes widened.

“It’s that easy,” Miko murmured against his mouth.

Keito pulled Miko down onto the floor and the boy fell into his lap. Suddenly there were hands everywhere; Kei’s in Miko’s chin-length hair, against his naked back, gripping his slender neck, intertwining their fingers, Miko’s cupping Kei’s cheeks and curling behind his neck and pressing against his chest.

It was clumsy and boyish and wet and desperate, years of repressed desire concealed by hate.

When they broke apart they were both panting and half-undressed. Miko smiled sweetly at Keito, who was still trying to comprehend the whole situation.

“I like you quite a bit too, Keito.”

Kei cleared his throat and looked away, blushing, “Well...we should maybe move this somewhere else. Think the doctor will be back soon.”


	17. Dreams

**2 days later, autumn, 212CE**

**Dorocium, Hadia.**

**The Shairin Empire.**

****

Augustus walked into the huge military tent that rose in the heart of the army camp that had been set up near the edge of the desert, only a few sand dunes away from the sea from which the Beauralt ships were supposed to come and lay siege on the shores. Behind the camp, in the distance, the golden lights of the city of Dorocium floated in the night sky.

Gus’ tent was close to Seraf’s, and as he was appointed as one of the generals he had the pleasure of privacy but the other warriors had to share the multitude of beige tents strewn around, illuminated by lights of fires. So far the warriors were lounging around, sharpening weapons and eating supper, laughing. The look-outs were at the beach but there was no sight of the enemy so far.

The army had arrived two days ago, sweeping through Dorocium and gathering their troops, but all they had seen thus far was the sparkling blue sea and the golden sands behind them – no ships, no Beaus. The days were filled with lounging around, waiting and training but the Shairin, relaxed in nature, had began drinking in the evenings. Gus worried they would not be ready for the attack when it did happen, and the lack of activity was making him anxious and allowed him for too much time to think about Omarian, and what happened between them.

The inside of the commanding tent was grander than Gus’ and decorated in the normal Shairin fashion with crimson curtains hanging from the tall ceiling, and a huge, low table in the middle with a map on it. Around the circular table, sitting on cushions, were gathered the other generals that Gus had grown accustomed to seeing in the past two days; in the light of the lamps hanging from the cloth-ceiling he saw their faces full of impatience.

“General Ciprianus,” Abolreza Yakir, the beautiful, angular-faced infantry general, said coolly, “How kind of you to join us.”

“Apologies,” Gus felt shy under the gazes of his older peers, “I was training the new Dorocium recruits.”

“It’s fine,” Seraf was smiling warmly at his friend. Cups of steaming herbal tea and glasses of spiced wine perched among the maps and reports, “Sit. We have strategy to discuss.”

Gus took his seat at the table between Ashquarat Rahun, the somewhat flamboyant leader of the troops from Dorocium, and Fikir Fahir, the head medic whose bizarre white hair and piercing blue eyes set in a dark face unnerved Gus. These were not the people of the Harem.

“Let’s begin,” Seraf started, voice measured, “General Ka’ll?”

Samirr Ka’ll, a tall, muscular man sitting beside Abolreza stood up. The metal piercings in his face gleamed in the light of the lamps, casting glimmers in his dark eyes. When he spoke his black braided beard decorated with gold and beads quivered. He was a fearsome man, the general of Seraf’s mounted troops.

“We have scanned the perimeter once again, Leahil,” he said in a voice so deep it sounded like a rock rolling down the side of the mountain, “We sent riders to Cusata, Termalia and Mezereum but there is no sign of the Beaus on the Great Yarn Road.”

“Of course there isn’t,” Ashquarat said calmly. In his hand he had a glass of deep red wine that looked almost black, and he swirled it around graceful, dark eyes surveying the room as if he was trying to solve a puzzle, “The Beaus will attack by sea, as is their custom.”

“Besides,” Abolreza interjected, jaw tight, turning her dagger where its tip was embedded in the table, making the hole deeper, “If they were to attack by land they wouldn’t take the Great Yarn Road.”

“Like they’d find their way in the deserts,” a shadow of a jeering smile appeared on Samirr’s face.

Gus watched them with interested, too intimidated to add anything from himself; he mostly trained recruits and did not lead parties in the sand, looking for pale ghosts.

Seraf rubbed his head. Oh how he longed for his bed with Kater in it, “What are the chances of this being another fake attack? Maybe the Beaus will attack somewhere else – Cusata, perhaps. Maybe they won’t attack Hadia at all.” _Maybe I left my wife and my little brother for no reason..._

“The chances are high,” a croaky voice that sounded like a toad’s drifted from the dark corner of the tent. Gus winced, as did Samirr and the others looked uncomfortable – the owner of the voice alarmed them all.

Gus shuddered and sank somewhat in his seat.

In the shadows of the corner of the tent sat a fortune teller; in the Shairin Empire they were esteemed and respected, viewed as magical beings akin to the druids of the North Islands or the witches of the Beauralt Wild Lands. Gus had only seen a handful of these tellers in his years in the Empire, and they were usually brightly-dressed, charismatic people who entertained party-goers at the Harem by predicting their futures.

There was nothing bright or charismatic about Shafira Gaffa Asem Moatessem. Nicknamed the ‘Card Witch’ she was the most famous teller in all of Hadia, and had previously counselled Seraf, and before that Seraf’s father in matters of war and state. She was an old, unsettling thing, with a back bowed grotesquely and a sharp, pointed nose sticking out of her ashy, dark face. One of her deep-set eyes surrounded by wrinkles was as white and cloudy as milk, while the other gleamed, black and intelligent. Her hands were like the talons of a bird, her mouth always pulled back into a ghostly, eerie smile. She seemed like something out of a fairytale, meant to scare the children into obedience. She sat now on a low stool, in front of a low table on which she had laid out ten tiles with the same symbol painted in red on them – they were as big as her hands. Her neck dripped in gold and she had deep indigo shawls wrapped around her head.

“Come,” she beckoned Seraf close with a crooked finger. The Leahil was afraid of her, of what she could see, but felt the eyes of the others on his back. He walked up to her with feigned confidence and knelt before her table.

“Tell me,” he said firmly, though he did not wish to know.

“As always, Leahil,” the Card Witch said in her low, raspy voice that drifted towards the cloth-ceiling like smoke. Gus shuddered and Fikir began fidgeting with his hands. Ashquarat leaned forward while Samirr and Abolreza subconsciously placed their hands on the weapons at their belts. Only Husse Al, the scout general nicknamed Giant, remained still. His face was covered in bandages and his huge form remained silent and unmoving. “I cannot see things clearly,” the teller continued, eyes trained on the nervous Leahil, “You must focus on the battle, and I will tell you what I can, but it is your future I am reading, not the future of Hadia or the Empire.”

“I know,” Seraf said, forcing himself to sound calm and collected even though his hands trembled under the table.

Shafira leaned back with that faint smile on her wrinkled face and gestured at the tiles, each identical.

“Pick three, and chose carefully.”

Seraf took a deep breath and reached for a tile at random. He flipped it over and on the other side he saw the beautifully, intricately painted face of a lion. Its mane was dark, as was its face, only its eyes seemed to glow gold.

“What does it mean?” Seraf blurted impatiently. _Not death, not death..._

“The Lion,” Shafira mused slowly, “The tile of a true king. A tile of trust. Lions are pack animals, Leahil, you must trust your instincts and the people around you, and you will lead them into prosperity.”

“In battle?” Seraf questioned eagerly, “Will we win because of my leadership, because of the generals I have chosen?”

“Make no mistake, Leahil,” Shafira said, a little coolly, “The tiles show me only what wants to be seen. I do not see the outcome of the battle, I see only your skill as a leader of your people.”

Seraf exhaled. It was better than nothing. Hastily he reached for the next tile. From it a crocodile stared at him, swamp-green with its jaws open as if ready to devour Seraf. Chills ran down the man’s spine, but the Card Witch seemed pleased.

“The Crocodile,” she hissed, leaning in. Seraf fought the urge to lean away from her. She smelled like wet earth, “danger. Danger is coming.”

“The Beaus?” Abolreza questioned from the table. Shafira didn’t even spare her a glance, eyes drilling into Seraf.

“The tile is warning you, be ready, be weary. Enemies will come.”

“When?”

Shafira just shook her head, “That I do not know. Pick the third, Leahil.”

Seraf’s hand trembled as he reached for the third tile, and it tumbled from his trembling hand, landing face up. He stared at it, blinked.

“Interesting,” Shafira murmured to herself, sharp, pointed nails tapping on the table, “The Wolf.” It was drawn in profile, deep blue eyes staring into the distance. Stoic, as if illuminated by the moon. “It is the card of the father. Heritage. You will have to fight for your motherland, for your Empire.”

But Seraf wasn’t listening, a flush rising to his dark cheeks, “D-Does...,” he choked, “Does this m-mean, does...is...is my wife...is she...will she-“

The Card Witch turned the tiles symbol-up again, “I do not have the answers you seek, I can only translate what God wants me to tell you.”

Seraf exhaled.

“What does all of this mean?” Fikir was gnawing at his fingernails, “Are the Beaus coming or not?”

“I don’t know,” Seraf turned to face his generals. His eyes met Gus’. “All I know is that you must trust me, as your leader, and that I must depend on all of you – do your job right, and everything will be fine.”

“Is this all for now?” Ashquarat inspected his fingernails, “It is late, I would like to rest.”

“Yes,” Seraf rubbed between his brows as the Card Witch silently retreated into the night. The encounter had exhausted him, “You’re all dismissed. Thank you.”

Murmuring among themselves the Generals began to file out of the tent, exchanging remarks. Gus drifted behind them, feeling detached, as if he was watching a play he was not part of.

Seraf grabbed his arm, stopping him, “Wait,” he said sheepishly, “I...uh...,” he waited until they were alone, only the sound of the wind gently hitting the tent keeping them company. Gus tensed, fearing Seraf wanted to talk about Ari. Not now, not when Gus was trying so hard to forget, to keep busy..., “I...I...,” Seraf bit his lip and released the younger man’s arm. His idea – which had seemed so bright hours earlier – now dimmed, “I see you are restless and uneasy. I have prepared a gift for you in your tent. I...I hope you enjoy it, and if not then no ill will, and know I mean nothing by it, just to offer you some comfort and distraction.”

Gus blinked, then smiled faintly, “You’re too kind, Leahil.”

_“Gus.”_

Gus smiled properly and clasped the man’s forearm, “Thank you, Seraf, I can definitely do with a distraction.”

He walked through the camp-grounds, weaving between burning bonfires and clumsily pitched tents of foot-soldiers. The night was warm, and many of the warriors slept beneath the stars.

Gus got to his own tent quickly and although it was much smaller than Seraf’s he was grateful for the privacy nonetheless. Now as he pulled apart the crimson flaps he found that that privacy had been invaded.

The mat he normally slept on in the corner, piled high with pillows, was occupied by two people, a man and a woman. Gus froze in the entry way and stared at them, at their unapologetic eyes twinkling with the light from the candles.

The girl was curvy and had only a see-through veil across her chest and most intimate area which still revealed everything Gus had to see. Her skin was dark, her hair long and ebony, flowing over her shoulders and breasts and down to her waist. Her legs were tucked neatly underneath her, in a way that made her smooth thighs seem enticing. Beneath a veil that covered the lower-half of her face, Gus could see a shadow of a smirk. Her eyes, almond and cat-like, were full of lust.

The boy next to her had lighter skin, but still much darker than Gus’. His hair was also black but shorter, sweeping over his thick brows in a tangle of curls. He had high cheekbones, a lightly hooked nose, and was completely naked, his cock standing to attention. He wore a golden circlet on his head.

There was no mistaking the similarity of both of these strangers to Ari. Gus’ heart clenched.

“Who are you?” he asked tightly, wanting to escape the tent.

The boy stood up, and sauntered over to Gus. Where the girl’s seductively was on full display, the boy seemed more mysterious, his gaze intense but guarded.

“You do not need to know our names,” his voice was deeper than Gus anticipated, and he came to stand in front of the Odelian. When he reached his hand out, Gus didn’t stop him. The Boy trailed his fingers down the Odelian’s clothed chest and Gus gulped, feeling himself stirring, “We are here to take care of you, Augustus.”

 _How do they know my name?_ Gus thought, and then – _Seraf._

“You’re the gift,” Gus breathed, “From the Leahil.”

The Girl giggled from where she had laid herself out lazily on Gus’ bed, as if it was hers. His eyes trailed over the curve of her hip, the swell of her breasts...how long had he felt the touch of another person? He had been so invested in Ari-

_Omarian._

“No,” Gus stepped away from the Boy, “I don’t want this.”

“Oh,” the Boy cocked his head to the side in interest and Gus felt his fingers barely skim the erection pressing up against his leggings. He shivered. “Is that so?”

He shifted closer, so his and Gus’ noses almost touched. The Odelian couldn’t help but be drawn in by the Boy’s mysterious allure and before he knew it he was leaning in. Their mouths met in a kiss more passionate than Gus predicted, though the Boy kept it slow and sensual, sliding his tongue erotically against Gus’.

He placed his hands on the man’s hips and walked him across the tent, and Augustus let him. The Boy pushed him down onto the bed, and Gus let him. The Boy kissed him and Gus...let him.

When The Boy ended the kiss there was a pleased smirk on his face. In the semi-darkness of the tent he looked so much like Ari, except there was none of the innocence, the wonderment and softness in his gaze. In that moment Gus didn’t care, his head swam with arousal. _I can never have the real thing._

The Girl’s face floated into view and her eyes were dark with lust. Without thinking Gus grabbed her by the back of her head and pulled her down for a hungry kiss that she reciprocated with a happy purr. She kissed differently than the Boy, more fiercely and hotly, tangling her tongue with Gus’.

Things happened quickly and Gus barely had time to think about them – he didn’t _want_ to think about them. The Girl undressed him as they kissed, and then the Boy took the Odelian’s hard cock into his mouth, and then they both took turns riding him until they were all panting and sweaty.

Outside, dawn was fast-approaching. They had been at it for hours and Gus was spent and exhausted.

“Leave,” he whispered to the two hoarsely, after he had come a third time. He felt like a dried up fig and the pleasure he had felt during their encounter was quickly escaping, replaced by his usual righteousness and guilt.

“Don’t you want us to keep you company?” The Girl purred, dragging her long-nail down Gus naked, sweaty chest. The kohl she used to paint her eyes with was smudged and her hair was a mess. Gus nudged her hand away gently.

“No,” he said, “Thankyou. I’d like to be alone.”

The Girl sighed, as if she had predicted it.

“Come on,” The Boy said in a voice too-normal, his sultriness and mysteriousness gone, “Let’s go.”

He stood, and the Girl stood too. Gus watched as they put on their clothes in the corner of the room. Suddenly they didn’t seem like sex gods, but like two normal, young adults, fiddling with sashes and buttons. Gus’ stomach knotted.

“Thank you, Augustus,” the Girl pulled her hair up into a bun and smiled sincerely, “This was very enjoyable.” She ducked out of the tent. The Boy looked at Gus with a heavy gaze.

“Whoever the person is,” he said with a spark of understanding in his eye, “You best forget them.”

And then he too, was gone. A single candle remained burning and Gus yearned for sleep. He dreamt he was still in the tent.

_The candles all flickered back to life, filling the tent with a warm, golden light. Gus sat up in his bed. Everything was as it should, in order – there was his desk with quills and parchment, there his slippers, there his sword._

_Omarian stood by the desk, gently dragging his delicate fingers over Gus’ maps. He had crimson flowers in his hair, and was dressed in his gorgeous wedding attire._ Is it happening already? _Gus’ mind reeled,_ is the wedding now, today, am I too late? _Too late to what? He wasn’t going to stop it..._

_“Ari,” he whispered. The boy looked up and smiled warmly at Gus._

_“You’re awake.”_

_The Odelian nodded, even though he knew he wasn’t. Or was he...?_

_Ari turned to face him, “Do I look pretty?” he asked, voice low and soft. Again, Gus could only nod mutely. Ari giggled and clapped his hands and skipped over to the bed. He knelt next to Gus and touched his face, “I’m glad.”_

_“What are you doing here?” Gus frowned. Ari stroked his cheek._

_“Don’t be silly,” he breathed._

_“I did something,” Gus mumbled, “I slept with someone else-“_

_“Shhhh,” Ari pressed a finger to his lips, and he looked as if he understood everything –_ everything - _but Ari never understood everything, not fully. “It’s alright. I’m here for the wedding.”_

_Gus’ heart broke, “Already?” he whispered._

_Ari pouted, “What? Don’t you want to marry me?”_

_“W-What?”_

_Ari pushed Gus back against the bed and climbed on top of him, and suddenly he was naked. Gus stared at him in shock and Ari’s eyes weren’t his own – they were the Girl’s, full of burning desire._

_“It’s alright,” he spoke in her voice, “Don’t you want me to keep you company?”_

_“O-Of course I do,” Gus stammered._

_But it wasn’t Ari on top of him, it was the Boy._

_“You best forget him,” he said, voice hard._

Gus woke up with a start, feeling as if someone had hit him. He took a moment to remember where he was. Grey light filtered in from the door-flap. Dawn.

Gus rubbed a hand over his face, feeling as if he had not slept at all. Guilt flooded him. How would Ari react if Gus ever told him what happened? Would he be jealous? Upset? Would he even understand or care?

_It doesn’t matter. He will never know. We aren’t friends anymore._

Gus turned onto his side and stared intently at his pillows, but sleeping seemed a distant, unattainable memory.

**Earlier that same night, winter, very far away.**

**Cervantes, Adanard, Beavnird.**

**The North Islands.**

****

After spending two days in the druid’s hut it became clear that Roan would be fine. The other warriors, treated by Orena and some villagers familiar with medicine, healed quickly and whispers began to spread about the hut at the edge of the forest, where Callian and Roan remained together, practically isolated save for visits from Beorthion, Feona, Wynna, Aeth and Orena.

_What are they doing in there? Doesn’t that little druid hate Roan?_

There were whispers and gossip fuelled by nights full of drinking and telling stories in the mead hall; winter was here, the raids were over, the Dreiyards could indulge in two months of bliss and pleasure with ice cutting off the paths of their enemies until spring.

_Do you think that druid gave in? That he finally allowed Roan into his bed?_

Neither Roan nor Callian cared for the rumours, or perhaps they just never heard them. They didn’t speak about their feelings and for the two days in which Ro was bedridden and Cal tended to his wound it was almost as if everything returned to normal, except there was now a fondness in Callian’s insults, and his hands were gentle and lingering on the other man’s skin.

He slept curled up with his wildcats by the fire, ignoring the insistent pull in his gut that urged him to climb into bed next to Roan and repeat the night they had slept together. But Ro didn’t ask again, and Callian was too embarrassed to make a move, despite the fact that his dreams were plagued by memories of the man’s hands pressing into his skin. He didn’t want to seem needy, like all those boys and girls who tried to seduce Roan at every occasion.

“I win!” Roan exclaimed, giddy as a child as he threw the dice onto the floor next to Cal’s folded legs. The dice both landed on an eight, and Cal rolled his eyes.

“Again,” he grumbled, only half grumpy, sweeping the dice up. Roan grinned.

“Let’s play again,” he asked, furs wrapped around his waist, bandages fresh against his chest.

“No,” Cal stood up and padded to the fireplace, putting the dice on the mantle, “It’s late, get back into bed. If you rest enough maybe you could return home by tomorrow.”

His narrow back was to Roan and he didn’t see the man’s expression fall. The blond flopped back onto Cal’s pillows and glared at the druid as the redhead bustled about, closing books and putting the ointments he used to treat Roan before their game of dice back onto their shelves. He was stalling, the way he had done the night before, as if he was scared to face Roan. He’d wait until the man went to sleep before he himself laid down by the fire.

Roan – usually so confident in every situation – was plagued by insecurity. He had _finally_ gotten what he wanted; Cal in his bed...then why wasn’t it enough? Why did Roan feel the constant urge to pull the redhead into his lap and love him and hide him from the world? Would this nagging feeling of desire never leave him?

And what did Cal want? He was unreadable.

“I don’t feel so good,” Roan lied and Cal glanced at him from where he was rolling up a parchment, “I think I have to stay here all week.”

Callian rolled his pretty green eyes again, “Stop being dramatic. You’re going home tomorrow, your family misses you.”

Roan pouted, which looked amusing on his big, bearded face, “They can just come visit me. Can’t I just-,” he stopped himself before he said something stupid but he saw Callian’s shoulders tense anyway. The unspoken question – _can’t I just stay here, with you? –_ hung in the air. Roan swallowed.

The blond turned to face the wall and listened to Cal prepare to sleep. Every time the druid came close to the bed the warrior’s heart started to pound, but alas eventually the boy blew out the candles and laid on the ground. Roan pushed down his bitter disappointment  and, like most nights, sleep took him easily.

_Ghosts, grey ghosts running through a grey field covered in mist. In the distance – shouts, echoes of blades slamming against blades. Cold rain on his skin and the burn of adrenaline within._

_An enemy in purple appears like a ghoul from the fog, charging. Roan tries to lift his arm but can’t, and when he looks down he has no arms at all. He is a limbless carcass, laying on the ground and waiting for death._

The blond sat up in Callian’s bed, gasping for air, vision swimming. His wound throbbed with pain and for a moment he couldn’t remember where he was, but then there were cold, frantic hands on his face.

“Roan,” Callian whispered feverishly, his face appearing in front of the blond, mouth in a tight line, a grimace of pain on his face, “Roan, breathe.”

Roan breathed, and only then realised that he was gripping the boy’s wrists tightly – when he released them, they were red. Cal let go of the warrior’s face rubbed his red skin subconsciously and Ro shuddered, the sweat on his body cooling.

“It was just a bad dream,” he said hoarsely. He didn’t mind admitting to his weakness, not in front of Cal anyway. The druid seemed relieved.

“Does your wound hurt?”

Roan shook his head, “Aches. What time is it?”

“Close to dawn,” Callian climbed off the bed that he had got on in his haste to calm his patient. Roan’s eyes followed the rim of his white night-shirt as it slid over the boy’s milky thighs. His hair was rumpled, his eyes swollen – he had been sleeping.

“Wait,” Roan’s hand shot out and he grabbed the druid’s sore wrist. Cal winced. The blond tried to tug the boy closer but Callian pulled his hand free, heart pounding.

“Good night,” he said, turning. He could feel blood rushing to his face, knew that both he and Roan were remembering their night together. He was ashamed, he remember how he had acted, his neediness, and he was embarrassed.

He made it to the fireplace and then felt strong hands grip his shoulders, turning him around forcefully. Roan towered over him, expression dark and angry.

“What-,” Cal started.

Roan kissed him, fingers digging into the redhead’s bony shoulders. It was a short, but passionate kiss that left Cal burning as if he were still a virgin, which he might as well have been...

“Come to bed,” Roan’s eyes were pleading, “I don’t wish to sleep alone.”

Callian looked away, “I can make an ointment and paint protective runes on you. Or boil a sleeping draught...”

 “No,” Roan said firmly – almost growled like a feral dog – “No I don’t want your magic, I want _you.”_

Cal’s heart skipped a beat in his chest and for a moment he was so overwhelmed he couldn’t speak. Nobody had ever said anything like that to him, _ever._ Was it possible? Was it possible that Roan truly desired him? That _anyone_ desired him, and not his gifts...

Roan saw emotions flickering in his beloved’s eyes and cupped his freckled cheek with one hand, fingers sliding into his soft hair. When he leaned in Cal let him and their mouths met in a much softer, sweeter kiss.

“Come to bed,” he repeated.

“I’m not your wife,” Callian replied shakily, but there was no bite in his words. He looked unsure and Roan didn’t understand – hadn’t he made his feelings clear?

“I’d like you to be,” Roan smiled softly and cut off Callian’s undoubtedly pessimistic reply with another kiss. The druid melted into it, unable not to; the surprising gentleness of the blond’s chapped lips, the burn of his beard against Cal’s soft chin...it was all the redhead wanted. He would have been content to remain in this hut, away from the world, forever.

Feeling Callian giving in, Roan pulled back and kissed down the boy’s neck, marvelling at its softness. His huge hands gripped the boy’s narrow hips and he pulled the druid flush against him, allowing for the redhead to feel his hardness and desire against his belly. Callian blushed a violent red that Roan found endearing.

“Y-You should go back to b-bed,” the druid whispered, voice trembling as Roan gently bit down at his pulse point, “Y-You might re-open your wound.”

“I’d rather open you,” Roan said teasingly, huffing out a laugh against Cal’s neck. The druid didn’t find it funny, and felt goosebumps erupt over his skin.

“I-Idiot.”

With no warning Roan swept him up off his feet and into his arms, lifting the boy completely off the ground as if he were a sack of potatoes. To Roan it was nothing; Cal might have as well been a feather-pillow, he was so light. But the druid squeaked in protest.

“Put me down!” he yelled, and his wildcats dashed under the bed. Roan paid him no mind, ignoring the fact that the smaller boy was trying to squirm away, “Roan you’ll hurt yourself!”

The warrior dumped Callian onto his bed and climbed on top of the boy before the redhead could so much as think of escaping. Roan realised that the key to being with Cal was not giving him enough time to panic or over think situations, so as soon as he was on him he shoved a hand under his night-shirt.

Cal’s eyes widened, “R-Roan, wait-“

Roan found his sweet, hard cock ready and leaking beneath the white shift and Callian blushed and looked away, ashamed of his own desire. He tried to close his legs but Roan shoved them apart easily with his free hand and settled between them, giving Cal’s cock a slow stroke. The redhead’s eyes fell shut and he let out a long, drawn out moan, hands gripping the sheets beneath him.

“W-Wait...,” he mumbled, even as his legs spread on their own accord, “T-This...I... _nghhh...,”_ he moaned adorably, hand pushing at Roan’s chest. Even now he was trying to fight his own desire. The warrior started stroking him faster and Callian’s eyes flew open, “N-No-,” he moaned loudly, then slapped a hand over his mouth, then removed it. His thighs shook, his toes curled, “N-No, R-Roan, w-wait-“

Roan was tired of hearing the boy trying to hold himself back. He grabbed him by the throat with his free hand and pushed him down into the bed.

“Let me _love you,”_ he growled, looming over the druid, eyes full of thunder. Cal swallowed, intimidated, and the blond’s expression softened. He released the druid’s throat and instead gripped his cheek, rougher than he intended, still unaware of how to completely control his strength, “You’re so fucking stubborn, Callian.”

Cal just stared at him.

Roan stroked his cheek, “Tell me you don’t want me.”

Callian swallowed, mouth dry, “I...”

“I want you,” Roan said plainly, staring at Cal, “I always have, ever since we were children. I want all of it, all of you. I want all of your freckles, and those sharp hipbones of yours, and that pretty little cock, and that-“

“Alright!” Callian exclaimed, embarrassed, “I-I get it.”

Roan grinned, “Good,” he said, and pushed Cal’s night-shirt up. The druid’s hands twitched to tug it back down but he stopped himself, clenching his jaw. Roan leaned down and kissed his stomach.

“Come on,” Feona tapped her foot against the snowy ground in front of Cal’s hut impatiently, “Don’t dawdle.” The girl was dressed in a long grey cloak and dark breeches, her pale hair and eyelashes crusted with snow, “I’m fucking freezing out here!” she called into the gloom of the druid’s hut.

Roan ducked outside, glaring at his sister heatedly. He had donned on a shirt, a fur and boots, and Feona had to admit he looked much healthier than when she saw him almost five days ago.

“The little druid did a good job,” she admitted.

“Why do I have to go back with you?” Roan grumbled, “I like it here, you stink and father snores.”

She punched his bicep and he didn’t feel it, “You snore too, you brutish boar. Now come on, Wynna’s prepared the morning meal and we have celebrations to attend to later. After all, it’s not every day that the son of the Chieftain rises from the dead.”

“I didn’t die,” Roan said as he and his sister began to walk, snow crunching beneath their feet.

“It sure looked like it. What did the little druid do anyway? Some speculate he called on the dead and bartered for your soul.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Roan said, irritated. He would much rather be back in Callian’s bed with the boy tucked away safely in his arms, sleepily stroking Roan’s back as he fell into the land of dreams. The man had hoped that before Feona came to collect him he’d get some precious time with the druid, to lay in bed in the morning together and talk about the future. But when he awoke it was only him and Ogma on the bed, and Callian and the other two wildcats had disappeared. “He only tended to the wound.”

“Only?” Feona lifted an eyebrow, “I don’t believe that. You bedded him, didn’t you?”

“Mind your business, you cow,” Roan shoved his sister and she stumbled, grinning.

“Ah! You did! Who would have thought that the little druid would give in, eh?”

“Stop calling him that,” Roan snapped.                    

Feona stopped and stared at her brother. For the first time she truly gave thought to all his ravings about how much he loved the redhead. _Shit,_ she realised, _he really does._

“Don’t get moody,” she said.

“Fuck off.”

They trudged towards their hut, bickering. Meanwhile in the depth forest, in a little hut, Callian sat on the floor by the bed of his mentor, where he had been all morning, spooning thin soup into her dry, cracked lips. She could barely swallow and had been reduced to a skeletal figure on her bed. She terrified Callian, and yet he tended to her, brushing out her thin, brittle white hair even as it came out in clumps from her spotty scalp. In the space of a few weeks, Maganna had deteriorated completely.

“The magic is leaving my body, child,” she whispered hoarsely as if reading his mind, “It won’t be long now.”

Cal’s heart ached, “I’m not ready for you to go,” he admitted, and his hand trembled as he lifted the wooden spoon to Maganna’s mouth once more. The head druid shook her head faintly and Cal put the bowl down on the floor. Outside, Gwydion stood guard.

“Yes you are,” Maganna assured him, sounding like a ghost, “You and Orena both are.”

“What if neither of us is worthy? What if you made a mistake and neither of us is suitable to be head druid?” Cal’s mind brewed with dark thoughts like an overflowing cauldron.

“Calm down, child. You always panicked too much,” Maganna shut her swollen, eyelash-less eyes, “the Dreiyards are a community, if Cervantes is left with no druid the other head druids will congregate and choose new candidates. This village will not be left without magic.”

Callian bit his lip, “I...,” he picked at a stray thread on the fur he was sitting on, “What if...if Orena becomes head druid, what do I do?”

When he looked up at Maganna the old woman saw in him the scared, lonely child she had found in the forest so many years ago. She wanted to reach out and touch his face, comfort him. Her dying state had made her cold heart seep with emotion, and yet she was too weak to do anything.

“You should do as your heart tells you,” she said calmly, “I know you do not know your place in the world but you are young, the people in this place respect you. Some of them love you,” Cal flinched, “you do not have to run from here, Callian, it is your home.”

“It’s not,” Cal said stubbornly.

“Ah, child,” Maganna sighed, “You will know what to do when the time comes. But I see you have more questions.”

Cal swallowed. Maganna could always read him like an open spell book, “I’m afraid,” he murmured, and they both knew he wasn’t talking about the rituals or Maganna’s death, but about the complicated relationship he and Roan had.

“Don’t live in fear, child,” Maganna said and smiled a toothless smile, “it will ruin you.”

“Have you ever loved anyone?” Cal asked in a whisper, picking at the fur a little more intensely.

“Yes,” Maganna closed her eyes and her smile softened. Her mind drifted through her memories. “Once I had been a young girl, beautiful and full of life,” she said in a dreamy tone that was unlike her. When Cal looked up at her dying frame for an instant he saw her the way she had been, long chestnut hair, green eyes full of youthful excitement, cheeks flushed with colour. A young druid, just like him, waiting for her life to begin. “And I loved someone too, very much. But I was afraid, afraid I was not good enough, that I would be a disappointment. When I was young I left Cervantes and went far away to learn from the best druids, wanting to become the most renowned one. And I was – in all the villages people know my name, my skill, and I will be remembered,” her voice was full of sorrow.

“But?” Cal asked gently.

“But now, as I lay here in my final days, I have regrets, my sweet child,” she opened her eyes and looked at the gloomy ceiling overhead, “When I returned here, a powerful druid, the love of my life had been killed in battle. The body had been thrown in the sea months before I came back. I should have followed my heart, my child. Duty isn’t always the most important thing.”

Moved, Callian took the woman’s hand in his. It felt so fragile he feared it would turn to dust in his grip.

“One day your magic will abandon you, Callian, and your body will fail you. In those moments you won’t want to be alone.”

Cal swallowed, “You’re not alone, I’m here.”

Maganna smiled at him with the warmth a mother carried for her child, “I am proud of you, Callian. Let yourself be loved.”

**The following afternoon, back across the Murmur Sea.**

**Dorocium, Hadia.**

**The Shairin Empire.**

****

The camel crested the sand dune, and Augustus gazed out at where the desert abruptly gave way to the ocean. In neat rows on the sand stood the soldiers from Antasa and Dorocium, unmoving and shirtless, only thin chainmail covering their chests, and golden helmets protecting their heads. Their eyes were glued to the horizon where the bright blue sky melted with the gleaming water. They waited motionlessly for the ships of the enemy to appear.

And yet for the past days they hadn’t, and each day Hadia’s soldiers grew more and more impatient, as did Gus. Unlike the others he was dressed in traditional Odelian armour with a purple cloak sweeping over his back. On his head he had a metal helmet with a plume of feathers the same colour as his cloak erupting from the top. He was sweating buckets, and the heat of the day made it feel like he was boiling inside this armour.

“Come on,” he whispered to himself as his eyes scanned the distance, “Where are you?”

Only the gentle breeze answered him. _Fuck this,_ Gus thought and reeled the camel around. In the desert below him stretched out the camp – Seraf had sent him here to see if the Beaus had shown themselves but there was no sign of attack, and the sun beat down on Gus mercilessly so he descended back the way he had just come.

Soon he found himself back among the hubbub of camp, filled with laughter and shouted orders. He felt light-headed as he disembarked the camel, gladly handing the animal off to a stable boy while dumping his helmet on a passing squire. His hair was slicked back with sweat and he made straight for the commanding tent that towered over the others, dwarfing them.

He swept inside with a flourish and was greeted by a wonderfully cool and shadowy interior. The thick cloth of the tent protected him from the heat of the sun.

Seraf, Abolreza and Samirr looked up from where they had been pouring over a map, sitting on pillows strewn around the low table.

“Any news?” Seraf asked anxiously.  

Gus shook his head, “There’s no sign of the Beaus, or anyone.”

“I’m telling you,” Samirr’s jewel-encrusted dark hands fiddled with the curved blade at his waist, “it’s another decoy. We’re stranded here, counting sand grains and before we know it they’ll strike somewhere else.”

Seraf rubbed his unkept beard. He seemed to have aged many months in the last few days; his separation from his beloved Kater, as well as his worry for his brother’s upcoming wedding, were keeping him up at night.

“The other ports had been warned,” Seraf replied, “If the Beaus attack, it will be here.”

 _“If,”_ Abolreza said pointedly, eyebrow arched elegantly as if she no longer believed the attack would take place.

Gus sighed, barely audibly.

“Friend,” Seraf smiled at him warmly, “You look exhausted. Take the rest of the day off, don’t tire yourself out.”

“You too,” Gus replied, “You worry too much.”

Seraf waved him off and then suddenly remembered, “Ah, a messenger came from Hadia an hour ago. You’ve got two letters addressed to you.”

“Letters?” Gus frowned. He couldn’t think of anyone in the Harem who’d write to him...maybe it was one of the wives, or maybe something happened...

“Here,” Seraf walked over to a desk in the corner and pulled out two golden envelopes – they were definitely from the Harem. With a smile the Leahil offered them to Gus, who took them tentatively.

His name was written in familiar cursive on the back. _Gus._ Not Augustus. The Odelian swallowed past the dryness in his throat and then bowed to Seraf.

“Leahil,” he said formally and the older man watched him with soft eyes. He knew, all of them knew. Gus’ heart pounded as he straightened, inclined his head at the two generals, and rushed out of the tent.

His own tent was nearby and Gus could barely focus on anything during the walk than the envelopes in his hand. He didn’t hear the din of repaired swords, didn’t hear squires bickering and young soldiers training, didn’t hear rapacious laughter or singing.

He eagerly disappeared into his own tent, the flap falling shut behind him and keeping out the rest of the world. He could still hear the rowdiness of camp, but it was muffled and he eagerly stripped off the rest of his armour and then collapsed on his bed in only his tunic and leggings.

His trembling fingers ripped open both the envelopes and two pieces of creamy paper fluttered out onto his bedding. The first one was dated three days ago, the second the day after. They were both from Ari.

Gus stared at the pages for a moment, overwhelmed. What was Ari writing to him? Had the wedding happened already? Was something wrong? What if the letters were full of sorrow and regrets? He was afraid to read them, so he just stared at the letters, before clenching his jaw and pouring over them.

_Dearest Gus,_

_I know I hadn’t come to say goodbye to you and I regret that now. Mama says you will be gone for some time, as will Seraf. I thought you’d only leave for a few days and that you’d come back for the wedding..._

_But it’s fine. I’m fine. ~~I can’t sleep at night and the paralysis happens a lot but~~ Kater has moved into my room ~~and she helps me through it~~. She misses Seraf terribly, as do I._

_Earlier today I had to go on a hunt with Gahr. I enjoyed the horse-riding, and the rainforest was lovely and full of beautiful, colourful bugs. We didn’t hunt down an animal though, and Gahr was angry. He said it was because I was too loud and bad at hunting, but I didn’t want to hurt a poor animal. Maybe I’m in the wrong._

_Anyway, I’m writing to say I’m sorry and that I’d like to be best friends with you again, if that’s alright. I’d also like you to come back soon. I miss you. There are so many strange people I don’t know in the Harem._

_I’ll be good this time, I promise. Eryel promised to teach me how to kiss and how to pleasure Gahr on the wedding night. I’ll be a proper Prince and I’ll make you and Seraf proud. I won’t cry anymore, so just come back please._

_With love, but not romantic love, just friendly love, I promise,_

_Ari x_

Gus exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding and stared at the paper, at the neat little letters pressed together, the swirling edges of the ‘s’ and the dash above the ‘i’s.’ His eyes filled with tears. What was Ari feeling – _properly_ feeling? He was trying to be brave and mature in the letter, hiding behind a cheerful tone, but Gus knew that it wasn’t right, he could feel his friend’s pain behind the gentle words.

Terrified, he picked up the second letter.

_Dearest Gus,_

_I’ve decided to write to you every day to let you know what I’m doing, though I don’t know how many of these you will get or if you will write back. I don’t mind if you don’t write back, and I don’t mind if you’re angry with me or disappointed as long as you forgive me eventually._

_Tonight I’m supposed to stay up till dawn, and Gahr too, it’s customary. I’m excited because Eri and Burha will come around and we will all tell stories and drink hot tea and stare at the stars._

_The wedding is soon. I wish you could make it. Mama says the messenger leaves tomorrow so I’ll send you the first two letters._

_I hope everything is alright with you and that you’re not hurt or scared._

_~~With love~~ _

_I miss you,_

_Ari x_

“Fuck,” Gus whispered, staring at the writing. He imagined Ari perched on his bed, legs folded and tongue sticking out between his plump lips as he wrote. Gus could almost smell the lavender and incense that filled the Harem.

An angry shout from outside, followed by someone running past reminded him that he was in the sweltering heat of the desert, miles from home. Fantasising about Ari wasn’t going to do him any good.

Gus nibbled on his lip and looked over the letters again. Ari seemed well enough and yet parts of what he wrote troubled the Odelian, especially the crossed out sentences and the part about Eryel teaching Ari how to be good in bed. That part made Gus nauseous and furious. He knew the wife was just doing her best to prevent Omarian from being shocked and caught off-guard during his wedding night, but the thought of the Prince being prepared like some sexual object for Gahr to use made his blood boil.

_There’s nothing I can do._

Dejected, the man went to fold the letter and then he noticed the note at the back – it was written hurriedly in writing leaning to one side. It was unfamiliar. Gus frowned and brought the letter closer.

_Augustus._

_I wouldn’t be writing if this wasn’t important. Things aren’t good with Ari, he wakes up in a panic. I know I was the one who tried to stop you from interfering but with the wedding only four days away I fear I was wrong. It’s not too late. Come back. I don’t care what happens, I’ll help Seraf appease the Rahun’s, but this marriage cannot happen. You love Ari, and he loves you too. Please, come back._

_Burha._

It was as if Gus had been punched in the face. He could almost hear Burha’s breathless, urgent voice. What the Leahila wrote wasn’t new or surprising and yet seeing it written by _her_ made reality rush in like a tidal wave. Burha was the most proper out of the wives, she knew her duty and she knew the duty of others, often scorning Eri and Kattie for being too carefree. The fact that it was her who was urging Gus to return meant that the situation was dire.

It was as if a bubble had burst; Gus had tried to tell himself that being here, away from Antasa and Ari and the wedding, would make everything alright, that he’d forget somehow. But how could he? He now knew the painful truth – even when Ari and Gahr were married these feelings would remain within Gus, even if he left the Empire forever and returned home these feelings would remain, he would always be hopelessly in love with Ari, but now he could still do something about it.

If Burha was damning the consequences, then so was he.

 _Four days._ It took the messenger two days to get to Dorocium, which meant the wedding would take place the day after tomorrow. If Gus wanted to do something, he’d have to leave now.

He stood and began packing frantically, throwing his clothes and books into a sack. He had to tell Seraf.

When his tent was stripped of his belongings and Gus was convinced he had made the right choice he rushed to the entrance of his tent and almost slammed into Seraf, who swept into the room looking agitated.

“Gus!” he exclaimed.

“Seraf, I was just going to-“

The Leahil grasped the Odelian’s shoulders and squeezed, his dark, intense eyes staring into Gus’.

“Burha wrote to me,” he said solemnly, “We’ve been idiots, Gus, we can’t allow for Ari to be alone during the wedding.”

“I know,” Gus choked out, “She wrote to me too. She...,” he hesitated. He couldn’t tell the Leahil that his wife was encouraging him to virtually commit treason. He bit his tongue but Seraf, in his determination, didn’t notice.

He let go of Gus and began to pace, not noticing the fact that Gus had already packed, “I’m trying to be a good Leahil,” he muttered, “But I care for my little brother, he needs me there, both of us. The chances of the Beaus attacking are slim, I will leave my generals in charge in case it does happen. It will take four days – we’ll get there, and be there for Ari when the wedding happens; comfort him, console him, anything...and then we can return.” He stopped abruptly and turned to look at Gus, “What do you say, friend?”

A million thoughts ran through Gus head; he hated himself for ever abandoning Ari in the first place, and for believing that this stupid war would take his mind of it, and he knew Seraf felt the same. A hundred _I love you’s_ echoed through his brain, _I’m in love with you,_ the words he never told Ari. But maybe it wasn’t too late.

“Let’s go.”


	18. Sitting and Waiting

**Two days earlier, across the desert, 212CE.**

**The Din-Moher Harem, Antasa, Hadia.**

**The Shairin Empire.**

****

“Let me tell you the story of the first Leahil, who fell in love with a fisherman,” Eryel said in a low, mischievous voice, her face gleaming in the light of the candle she held in her hands, her eyes dark as a cat’s. Ari giggled, his head in Kater’s lap as the woman stroked his hair. They sat in a circle on the huge bed belonging to the wives, and Burha sipped wine out of a golden goblet. The room was drowned in darkness, only Eri’s face was illuminated mysteriously as she continued, floating in the air like a decapitated head.

“Once upon a time, a long, long time ago there lived the first Leahil of Jarrej. He governed the land justly and peacefully and was loved by his people, and yet he was terribly lonely. His courtesans brought before him beautiful ladies, rich and poor, young and beautiful with many, many talents. The Leahil danced with them, and slept with some of them, and yet his loneliness remained.”

Arian sniffled, moved, “Does he find happiness?”he asked in a hushed voice brimming with emotion. To his chest he squeezed the newest letter he had written for Gus, that he would send with the messenger in the morning.

“Shhh!” Eryel pinched his arm, “Listen.”

Burha offered her wine glass to Kater.

“No, thank you,” the girl shook her head. Burha raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

“Will you _shut it_?” Eryel huffed, glaring at the two girls, then cleared her throat, “Anyway,” her voice softened to the one of a mysterious storyteller, “the Leahil lived in his gorgeous Harem, surrounded by people, and he felt terribly alone. One day his loneliness grew to levels so painful that the Leahil got onto the back of a camel and left his Harem without telling a single soul. He travelled through the deserts of Jarrej for hours and hours, driven on by his melancholy, until he finally reached the sea. He was absolutely mesmerised by it, for he had never seen it before. In that moment he decided he didn’t want to be Leahil anymore and that he would sit on the edge of the water and spend the rest of his life staring at the waves; he released his camel, laid down in the sand and watched the sky.”

“Dramatic,” Burha snorted.

“It’s romantic,” Ari sighed dreamily. Kater smoothed his curls over his forehead. The prospect of leaving everything behind and living by the sea didn’t sound so bad to the Prince.

“So it is,” Kattie agreed with him.

“However,” Eri’s voice floated up, “as he was sitting there and watching the water he saw a little boat on the horizon. As the sun set the boat came closer and closer until it washed up on shore. The Leahil watched as the most beautiful creature stepped out of the boat; it had long black hair and skin shimmering like bronze. The Leahil – exhausted from his journey – thought he was seeing a siren or a god, but it was only a simple fisherman. The fisherman came to the Leahil and invited him into his isolated cottage on the beach-“

“And then he killed him,” Burha interjected with a cackle.

“Burha!” Kater hissed.

“The Leahil lied about his identity,” Eri ignored them, “and pretended he was a lost traveller. The beautiful fisherman fed him and gave him clean clothes and allowed him to sleep by the fire. The next day he said his goodbye and returned to the sea to fish but when he returned home that evening he found that the Leahil was still there. The Leahil remained for weeks, cleaning the cottage and learning how to fish from the fisherman. They fell in love while Jarrej lamented the loss of their kind ruler.”

“And what happened?” Ari sat up, full of emotion, “Did they force them apart?!” he demanded, and couldn’t help but think of himself and Gus.

“No,” Eryel said calmly. She brought the candle down from her face so her whole body was illuminated, “The fortune tellers of Jarrej found them in the hut after some months, when the Leahil was almost unrecognizable, and begged him to return to the Harem because the country was falling into despair and chaos without him. But the Leahil was adamant and said he would not return unless he was allowed to marry the poor Fisherman. Before marriage between men hadn’t been permitted, and yet then an exception was made as the Leahil argued that love is the most important thing to the Shairin, and so everyone should be allowed to marry the one they love. The Fisherman and the Leahil moved back to the Harem and lived in happiness forever.”

“Ah,” Kater sighed, “what a beautiful story.”

“Yes, yes, now bed time,” Burha drained the rest of her wine.

“I thought we weren’t supposed to sleep,” Ari said, “Isn’t that the point of keeping vigil?”

“Yes,” Eri blew out the candle and dragged Burha into bed next to her, pulling the silk covers over them, “We’re not sleeping.”

The four of them laid down, the couple on the left, then Kater, then Ari on the edge. The dark room soon filled with the sound of gentle kissing as Eri and Burha took the opportunity of being pressed so close together. Kater closed her eyes and thought of Seraf, and her hand pressed over her belly. Ari closed his eyes and saw Gus.

He sat up, “I’m going to the bathroom,” he whispered into the darkness. Eryel and Burha broke apart.

“Alright,” Eri said breathlessly, then giggled as Burha slid a hand beneath her night-dress.

Ari slipped off the bed and crept carefully across the room, hands nudging past the curtains hanging throughout the room, picking his way and ensuring that he didn’t trip. It felt like he was passing through cobwebs.

The hallways were empty and peaceful, the air still and warm as candles flickered in lamps hanging from the ceilings. The decorations for the wedding were halfway put up; garlands of red hibiscus flowers and yellow roses crept across the ceiling, deep purple curtains hung over the balcony overlooking the courtyards below. Ari looked over these beautiful things and tried not to think about them too much, or what they entailed.

Arian turned towards the bathrooms, his bare feet dragging on the floor, when suddenly a hand grabbed his arm and he was roughly shoved into the wall.

Panic spiked within him when he saw Gahr’s bearded, smirking face appear before him, the man’s hands pressing Ari into the wall by his shoulders. They were in a little alcove, surrounded by shadows. Gahr couldn’t bear to stay in bed and although he was supposed to not sleep tonight the waiting was driving him insane. He wanted to run from this strange Harem, to be with Satima, and yet all he could do was sit and wait as the hours towards his cursed wedding dwindled down. He didn’t want to marry the Prince. He was tired of sitting and waiting. That’s why he had drank a whole flagon of spiced wine and wandered through the Harem like a ghost, spitting at the decorations. Eventually his feet had brought him here, to wait outside of his fiancée’s room. He didn’t know what he wanted to do, he just knew he wanted to take his anger and frustration and hurt on someone else.

And who else was better than the Prince himself – little, trembling, big-eyed and innocent like a doe, the object of Gahr’s unhappiness. He let out a little squeak when Gahr slammed him into the wall, like a puppy. The bigger man wanted to hit him, tell him to stop being so pathetic.

“G-Gahr,” Ari gasped, “U-Um...you’re not...we’re not supposed to see each other before the wedding. U-Um...it’s t-tradition...,” his eyes were running everywhere except Gahr’s face as if he were some monster whom the Prince was afraid of. _Good,_ Gahr though, _be scared._

“Fuck tradition, I’m bored,” Gahr cocked his head to the side and studied Ari, “Where were you going?”

Ari’s head was blank with panic, “I-I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Gahr cocked a thick eyebrow, “Well, well, you really are stupid. Or were you sleepwalking? No matter...why don’t we have some fun?”

“Umm...,” Ari dropped his gaze to the floor. His bladder hurt and he suddenly remembered why he had left the safety of the Leahila’s bedroom in the first place, “I-I have to pee,” he said in a small, scared voice.

Gahr smiled, “Peeing’s no fun,” he enjoyed seeing the privileged little Prince squirm, and knew what would make him even more uncomfortable, “Why don’t we kiss instead?”

Ari tried to swallow down a terrified sob. The tears were coming very quickly, quicker than he could try and stop them, “N-No thankyou.”

“Aw,” Gahr pouted, leaning in closer. He smelled like incense, “Don’t you want to kiss me? What about that little Odelian guard of yours? Do you want to kiss _him?”_

Gus’ face flashed in Ari’s mind, his kind eyed, his gentle hands.

“I’m not allowed to kiss him,” he whispered.

Gahr laughed, “Well, you’re allowed to kiss me.”

He grabbed Ari by his slender throat and pushed him against the wall harder and then crashed their mouths together. It was less of a kiss and more of a hit, which is what Gahr wanted it to be. Ari’s eyes widened and he felt paralysed, frozen, the way he did when he tried to sleep. Gahr’s mouth was rough and dry, trying to find its way past Ari’s sealed lips. His beard scratched the boy’s soft chin. Omarian whimpered like a hurt animal and Gahr pulled back, before violently slamming his hand on the wall next to the boy’s head.

Ari cried out and crumbled to the floor, covering his ears with his hands and squeezing his eyes shut. He started to sob, trying to will himself away from this place, away from Gahr.

“Goddammit,” the bearded man swore, looking at the trembling boy beneath him. He had hoped scaring the little shit would make him feel better, but instead he felt the pit in his stomach widen, “You know you can’t act like that?” he snapped, “Like a child, like a _baby._ I’m supposed to fuck you on the wedding night, and you’re acting like...,” he trailed off. Ari wasn’t listening anyway. Remorse crept through Gahr’s veins but he quickly pushed it away – it wasn’t his fault that he was being forced into a marriage with a half-wit.

“What are you doing?!” the outraged yell made both the men look up.

Kater stood beside the alcove in her white night-dress, and her usually gentle eyes were ablaze. She looked at Ari cowering on the floor and at Gahr towering over him.

“Leahila-,” Gahr began respectfully, feeling somewhat ashamed.

Kater stepped towards him and struck him across the face with all her might. Stunned, Gahr stared at her with wide eyes, his face stinging.

“If you ever,” she growled, low and feral, the way no lady would ever speak, “touch my brother again I will rip your throat out and throw it to the jackals.”

Gahr realised his terrible mistake. He was making a lot of enemies in this Harem, and he was supposed to live here for the rest of his life. Gritting his teeth and trying to ignore how unfair this whole thing was, Gahr bowed.

“Apologies, Leahila,” he said coldly, then walked around the woman and disappeared down the corridor, heading towards his room where he hoped to find some relief from these terrible, dark thought clouding his mind.

Kater watched him disappear, and when he did she grasped Ari’s trembling arm and pulled him up. He was in shock, eyes wide and unseeing and allowed the wife to hush him and lead him to the bathroom – she was kind and gentle once more.

Ari relieved himself and like a ghost followed Kater back through the Harem and into the bedroom.

Eryel and Burha unglued themselves from each other, cheeks flushed and hair tousled, “What was all that ruckus?” Eri asked, brushing her dark hair from her face, smiling mouth swollen. Her smile faded when she saw the state Ari was in.

“What happened?” Burha demanded sitting up. Kattie slid Ari into the bed and the boy was shaking as if he was cold. Eri tried to reach for him but he flinched away from her.

“It was Gahr,” Kater’s voice was cold, “he attacked him.”

“Attacked?!” Burha yelled, “What do you mean attacked?!”

“H-He kissed me,” Ari whispered, staring into space.

The wives exchanged looks. Eri felt a fury within her, Burha a helplessness, Kater just felt hopelessly sad. And yet they all knew they could not condemn Gahr for this; if they told Ari what he had done was wrong, he would never understand why they allowed for the wedding night to take place. As always, it was Burha who was the bearer of bad news.

“Ari,” she reached out and took the boy’s hand, but he slipped it out again. He didn’t want to be touched right now, he could still feel Gahr’s phantom hand around his throat, “You know...when Gahr is your husband you two will have to kiss. Ari, do you know what sex is?”

Kater turned her head away and blinked tears out of her eyes.

But Ari didn’t cry, but sat up straighter, “Yes, I do.”

As children he and Gus would crouch behind the closed door of the bedrooms of newlyweds who got married in the Harem, and giggle as they listened to the sounds. Once they were caught by a servant girl, who explained to them in a conspiratory whisper what was happening. When Arian got a little older he’d wake up from dreams of what he thought it looked like, and it was always Gus with him in the dreams...

“I’m not an idiot,” he said, tone chilly, “And I’m not a child. I know...”

Burha swallowed. _Ari,_ she wanted to say, _my poor, innocent little Ari._ “You will have to have sex with Gahr on your wedding night. You...the first time hurts usually, but it will be better later.”

Ari frowned, “Hurts?” he didn’t understand.

“Just a little,” Eryel interjected with a fake smile, because Kattie couldn’t speak, “You just have to bear it, you know? You’re a big boy, I’m sure you’ll manage.”

 _He won’t,_ Kater wanted to scream. She had seen how threatening Gahr had been towards the boy, knew he wouldn’t even spare being gentle a thought. He’d do everything he could to make the wedding night hell for Ari, and that thought was unbearable.

Fear made Ari’s throat tight. He hugged himself.

“Can’t Gus come back?” he whispered, even though he had promised not to pray for that anymore...

“It’s alright!” Eryel perked up, “You don’t need Gus, you have us. Have you ever kissed anyone?”

“W-Well...,” a blush rose to Ari’s cheeks, “M-Me and Gus...w-we...u-um...,” he remembered the night of one of the parties, he couldn’t remember which one, and the weight of Gus’ body pressed against him as he kissed him back for one sweet moment, “a-and Gahr just now.”

“Alright, we’ll teach you how to do it properly!” Eryel beamed, “Watch.”

She grabbed a surprised Burha by the back of her neck and drew her in. Arian and Kater watched as their mouths met in a slow, passionate kiss, their plump lips moving together. Burha drew back first, blushing.

“Alright,” she grumbled, “No need for an audience.”

“See?” Eri said, “it’s easy.”

“It doesn’t look easy...,” Ari mumbled. He remembered how clumsily he had kissed Gus, and felt embarrassed – had he been bad?

Eryel glanced at Burha. Burha raised an eyebrow, then inclined her head. They understood each other without words.

“Here,” Eryel shifted closer to the boy and her hands touched his face. Her touch was familiar, warm, it chased away his last tremors that Gahr had caused. “I’ll show you,” there was a mischievous gleam in her eye.

She kissed Ari, her lips sliding against his. They were soft, slightly wet. She smelled like orchids. It was a nicer kiss than Gahr’s one, but Ari still wanted to cringe away from it; there was no heat in his stomach, none of the shivers he got with Gus.

He only wanted to kiss Gus.

Ari pulled away, bit his lip.

“Ari,” Kater stroked his hair, “Would you maybe like to sleep with someone else before the wedding night? There’s still time and maybe you’d get used to it...”

Ari felt dizzy, it was all too much. He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, “Can we go to bed?” he asked in a little voice, “I know we’re not supposed to sleep but...”

“That’s fine,” Eryel laid down and opened her arms, “We’ll keep it a secret.”

Ari laid beside her, hugged himself into her narrow chest. Kattie laid behind him and the two women looped their arms around the boy, hugging him tightly. Burha sat on the edge of the bed, lost in thought, until the trio’s breathing slowed and they all fell asleep.

Burha was wide awake. Her gaze landed on Ari’s letter that had somehow fluttered to the ground next to the bed. She leaned over on her stomach and picked it up, turned it over in her hands. When she opened it her eyes skimmed the boy’s writing and then she looked away, feeling it was too private to read.

Something grasped her heart suddenly, a desperation to set things right. She got off the bed and shoved past the curtains, to a desk in the corner. She dipped a quill into an inkwell and quickly scribbled her own message on the back of the letter. Maybe, just maybe...

She barely finished when she heard a faint, low whimpering from the bed and then Kater’s soothing voice.

“Shush,” the woman murmured, “it’s alright.”

Burha walked back to the bed, fingers stained with ink. Eri was still asleep but Ari was on his back, eyes wide open and body frozen. Paralysed. Kater stroked his hair and her silent tears fell onto the pillow next to him.

**Two days later, back to present, winter.**

**Cervantes, Adanard, Beavnird.**

**The North Islands.**

****

“You look happy,” Wynna remarked as she stalked into their hut, kicking the doorframe to knock snow off of her boots. In her arms she had a pail of water and she smiled at her brother, who was swaying in a hammock by the fire-pit, eyes closed, grin on his face, “Any special occasion?”

“He loves me, Wynnie, I’m sure of it,” Roan sighed happily.

Wynna glanced at her brother as she poured the water into the pot over the flames, “Callian?”

“Aye,” Roan opened his sky-blue eyes, “I haven’t seen him since I left his hut yesterday, but I am deliberately not going to him.”

Wynna cocked an eyebrow, “You’re not? But you’re always following him around...”

“Exactly,” Roan swung his legs over the side of the hammock, a gleam in his eye. He spoke as if he was telling Wynna a secret, explaining a military strategy, “This time I’ll let him come to me; he won’t be able to stay away, I’m sure of it. Now that I had warmed his bed, and he knows and accepts my feelings, it will surely happen.”

“Oh he accepts your feelings!” Wynna exclaimed, then sighed dreamily, “Oh how sweet, he finally said he loves you back...”

Roan opened his mouth, then frowned. He remembered Cal’s naked, freckled, flushed body as it arched in the blond’s hands, the desperate way the boy clung onto him, the sweet little moans, the way he curled up into Roan’s side like a cat afterwards and allowed the warrior to shower him with love. He couldn’t say he didn’t want Roan, but he also hadn’t said those words...

“I’m sure he loves me,” Roan mumbled, but he wasn’t so sure really. He bit his lip.

Wynna giggled, “And here I thought _I_ was the hopeless romantic.”

“Have you seen him?” her brother didn’t hear her.

“Aye, I have,” Wynna bustled about the hut. She grabbed a wooden spoon and began stirring the slowly cooking water, “He looked pale.”

“He’s always pale.”

“Paler than usual. Father’s spent all morning with Maganna, apparently she’s not doing good. Feona says she looks like a ghoul,” the young girl shuddered, then bit her lip. She threw some winter vegetables into the pot and for a moment the siblings were silent, both lost in thought, “Ro?” Wynna said suddenly, pausing the stirring.

“Hmm?” the man broke out of his musings.

“What do you think...about Aeth?”

“The travelling bard?” Roan asked, taken by surprise. He remembered how close he and Cal would sit during celebrations and fought his jealousy, “He’s fine. Why?”

Wynna was red in the face, “Nothing,” she squeaked and stirred the pot unnaturally fast, “How...how is your wound?”

“Perfectly fine,” Roan stood and flexed his muscles proudly, making his sister giggle, “I’m like brand new, could kill those dirty Odelian bastards all over again!”

“I’m sure you could,” the girl said sweetly, hair like a halo, “You know, maybe instead of ignoring Callian you should offer him a nice gesture. You know how stubborn he is, it might be a while before he breaks and comes to you, and with Maganna dying...I’m sure he feels scared and unsure.”

“Hmmm,” Roan stroked his stubbly chin, “You’re right,” he nodded and his mind ran – flowers? No, they wouldn’t grow until summer...a big celebration and a public declaration? No, Roan could already see Cal burning with embarrassment. Then what...realisation dawned on him. “Wynnie!” he exclaimed and ran to the surprised girl, pulling the stirring spoon out of her hands, “You must go to Callian at once and tell him to meet me at the beach at sundown!”

“What?” the girl was confused, “But...what about supper?”

“I’ll worry about supper,” Roan dropped the spoon in the pot and turned his sister back towards the door, “Just do me this favour.”

Wynna, who was never able to say no to either of her siblings, gave Roan a look, grabbed her fur from by the door and walked out into the snowy afternoon with a sigh. Roan grinned, confident in his plan. Then he turned to the pot. The water was boiling over.

“Shit!” the blond swore and ran towards it.

Anxiety – that’s what Cal had felt for the past few days, he could barely sleep at night and the thought of Maganna dying was always on his mind – Roan’s return had broke him away from that for a while, but now Cal was alone again and he had to deal with _this_ on top of everything.

He stood on the sand by the shore, the wind tugging at his cloak and hair, the smell of salt heavy in the air. The druid glumly stared at the grey waves and the ice floating in the water. He had no idea why he had decided to come here, he was busy and had many things to do; now that Maganna was unable to perform her duties it was on him and Orena to take care of Cervantes.

And yet when Wynna had come to him and told him to meet Roan by the sea he hadn’t hesitated. Now that he was here alone he couldn’t understand why. Was the blond coming to tell him that it was over, that Cal was supposed to forget the whole thing? He knew it would happen sooner or later; Ro had wanted to have sex with him since they turned fifteen, and now that he had finally got what he wanted...

Although Cal had thought Roan was a brute, the few days he spent with him in isolation had taught him that the man was actually romantic, and soft, and Callian was afraid he was trying to be a good man and formally tell Cal he wasn’t interested, instead of just tossing him aside like a cum rag.

There was a tightness in his throat and it took Cal a moment to realise that he was trying to choke down tears. He didn’t know if he could take this rejection, not right now, not when he had the anxiety and pain of Maganna’s impeding death hanging over him.

Roan wanted to sneak up on the unassuming druid, but he was too big and made too much noise; the redhead turned to face him when he heard the warrior’s footsteps – they came face to face, for Roan was much closer than Callian anticipated. The druid’s breath caught in his throat when he saw the blond, and his hands clenched into fists. _He could be mine,_ he thought, looking at Roan’s sparkling eyes and easy-going grin, the way his long locks were being tossed by the chilly wind and the way his fur laid on his broad shoulders, _he could be mine, if he just wanted, if I could just make a potion..._

Cal turned his gaze before he finished that problematic thought.

“Hello,” he said, feeling warmth beating from Roan.

“Hello,” the warrior grinned, “I thought I could sneak up on you.”

“Yeah, well...,” he looked at the sand, “Um...why did you want to meet?”

“Do I need a reason to see you?” Ro quizzed. Cal looked somewhere to the side. He had retreated back into himself. Roan took another step towards him, “Hey,” he reached towards the boy and his jaw clenched when the redhead flinched away, “What’s wrong?”

“Maganna’s dying.”

“I know,” Roan said calmly, “She’s old. Old people die.”

“Gods you’re so _simple!”_ Cal snapped, surprising Roan with his sudden anger, and stepping away from the man, “Don’t you see what this means?! When she dies – i-if I don’t...,” he turned away and looked at the sea, hands curled at his sides, “If I don’t become the next Head Druid I’m going to have to leave. There’s no place for me here.”

“What?” Roan laughed, “What are you talking about?”

Cal’s shoulders slumped. “I’m not part of this clan.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Roan seized his narrow shoulder and whirled him back around. His expression was sincere, “You’re as much part of this clan as I am.”

Cold wind tugged at their hair, “I don’t need your foolish optimism,” Callian said bluntly, “Now get on with it.”

“Get on with what?”

Cal shrugged. Again his eyes danced away, as if looking at Roan was hard, “The...you know...,” he bit his lip, and pulled away from the blond who was still holding his shoulder, “Actually, you know, I don’t need to hear it.”

“Hear what?” Ro was confused.

“I get it, alright?” Cal stepped back again, slowly putting distance between the two of them, and chuckled humourlessly, brushing his hair from his face. The wind was growing stronger, “I...you don’t have to be nice. I know that it was just a one time thing,” he shook his head, “Or a two time thing. Don’t worry, you’re not breaking my heart,” another sad laugh, “I don’t like you like that anyway.” He tucked his hair behind his ear nervously.

Roan’s slow brain finally caught up and his mouth fell open. Already arguments formed in his head, ones he had given Cal dozens of times already. But the sea seemed more enticing than arguing with the redhead and Roan was tired of this back and forth they’ve been having for years.

With no warning Roan wrapped a strong arm around Cal’s waist and easily threw the druid over his shoulder. Callian yelped as his world tilted and he looked at the sand below him as Roan carried him towards the sea.

“What are you doing?!” Cal huffed, his cloak tumbling over his head and obscuring his view, “put me down! How many times are you going to do this you brute! Roan! Listen to me-“

The cold pierced through him violently as Roan dropped him into the sea. The water wasn’t very deep but Cal fell backwards and dunked his head, before jumping to his feet, dripping wet and shaking.

“What the fuck?!” he screamed at Roan who stood a few feet away, laughing merrily. The cold wind slipped beneath Cal’s soaked clothes, pinched at his face and iced over his hair, “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” he demanded, furious. Roan started towards him, and Cal backed up, stopping when he realised he was going deeper into the water, “Stay back you asshole!”

But Roan paid him no mind. He wrapped an arm around Cal’s shoulders and dragged the struggling, shivering druid back towards the beach, ignoring the violent tangle of curse words aimed in his direction.

“...do you think this is funny?!” Cal was still yelling when they got onto the sand, “It’ll be funny when I get sick and die you goddamn idiot!”

Roan pulled off his fur and then wrapped it around Cal, pulling it over his head and all. The boy shut up, and looked at Roan in surprise. The blond, not feeling the cold, smiled and drew the druid into his arms. Cal let out a shaky breath when Roan ducked his head and pressed their foreheads together. All of a sudden they were so close. From a distance it looked as if Ro was hugging a teddy bear.

“I thought the water would clear your head,” he said jokingly. Callian exhaled.

“I’m freezing,” his teeth clattered.

Roan hugged him harder, then kissed the boy’s cheek. Cal shivered, not because of the cold this time. He wanted to tell the warrior to let go, to stop being stupid, but he couldn’t get the words out. He was still wet, but he felt warm now, and he didn’t want to lose that warmth. He closed his eyes. _Just keep holding me,_ he wanted to say. Roan’s broad face was the only thing Cal could see when he opened his eyes again.

“I’ve loved you since we were children,” the blond said gently. Cal tried to look away again but Roan grasped his chin in his big, rough hand and forced the boy to look at him. “I know I had a weird way of showing it, I didn’t know how to approach you when we were little so I’d tease you. I’d tease you about all the things I liked about you; how small you are, your freckles, your hair. I want to protect you Cal, and treasure you. But we’re not little anymore,” he smiled, “Well, you’re still little.”

“Shut up,” Cal said breathlessly.

“But I know how to show you now,” Roan continued. The wind howled. Blood pounded in Cal’s head, “I know how to be a proper man, how to make you proud and make you want me back,” before Cal could said anything – not that he could think of anything to say – Roan kissed him. It was a warm, soft kiss that made Cal’s blood sing. A kiss too easy, one that was becoming familiar; the druid melted into Ro’s familiar embrace.

When they broke apart Cal sighed and leaned into Roan. He felt like just giving in.

“I want you to marry me,” Roan said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Callian snorted, then blushed at the weird noise he made. “You know what marriage here is like – it’s for life, you can’t sleep with anyone else. You’d have to be faithful.”

Roan stood back, serious, “I know.”

Cal sighed and clutched the fur around himself, “Do you know that people would talk. The future Chieftain _married._ There’d be so much gossip, so many questions. Nobody would understand why you did it...,” he hugged the fur around himself tighter, “Especially why you did it with _me.”_

“I don’t care,” Roan grumbled, “Fuck gossip. If they ask I’ll tell them the truth – I married you because I love you, and because I don’t want anyone else.”

Callian stared at him, “You’re serious,” he whispered.

Roan exhaled, “Finally. _Yes,_ Cal, I’m serious. I was always serious.”

Emotions flooded Cal; relief, happiness, crippling fear.

“I-I don’t know-,” he began.

“Don’t,” Roan groaned, looking up at the clouded winter sky, “Just don’t. Don’t think of what could go wrong, of the consequences, of all your insecurities. Just tell me if you love me the way I love you, tell me that you want to marry me, or not.”

He held his hand out; big as a pot, rough and calloused. A million things crowded into Cal’s head but for once he listened to Roan, and didn’t think. He slipped his delicate, freckled hand into Roan’s.

“Yes,” he breathed.

The blond’s eyes widened a fraction, “W-What?”

Cal began to backtrack, panicking, and pulled his hand back. _It’s a joke after all._ He waited for Roan’s friends to burst from the trees, laughing, “I-I mean I thought t-that’s-“

Roan crushed the druid against him so hard his bones groaned, he lifted him off the ground. The boy gasped, unable to breathe, but Roan was just laughing – cheerfully, full of relief, ecstatic. He put Cal back down before the boy lost consciousness.

“Really?!” he asked, looking like an excited puppy. His huge hands danced over Cal’s body, he shoved the fur off his head, ran his hands through the boy’s hair, gripped his face, his shoulders, “You’ll be mine? You’ll marry me?”

“Y-Yeah,” Cal mumbled, red all the way up to his ears, “I-I mean I...I...I suppose...I r-reckon I l-love...love you...too,” he finished in a small voice.

Roan attacked him with kisses so passionate the two almost fell backwards onto the sand, and then they were both laughing into each other’s mouths.

“Callian!”

The voice carried over the wind and the men pulled apart, flushed and breathless. They looked up at the forest-covered hill that led towards the village. Standing there, a small figure, was Orena. He hands were cupped over her mouth and she was shouting something, but the only thing that was audible was the other druid’s name.

Mannannan circled over Cal’s head. The bird’s dark wings beat the air and then, to the men’s surprise, it landed on Roan’s broad shoulder, its talons scraping the warrior’s skin. Cal’s eyes met Mannannan’s beady, black ones. The bird let out one long, mournful cry.

Cal’s heart jumped to his throat and he threw himself towards Orena.

**The following night, back across the sea.**

**The Din-Moher Harem, Antasa, Hadia.**

**The Shairin Empire.**

****

Omarian ripped the crown of red flowers from his hair and threw it across the room for the third time. The glimmering white veil shimmered as it passed through the shaft of amber sunset sunshine that fell through the Prince’s bedroom window. The circlet hit the wall and tumbled to the floor, crimson petals fluttering to the ground.

“Omarian!” Therian shouted, hand on her heart, “You cannot behave like this!”

“I can!” the Prince yelled, “I can and I will, I won’t do it! I won’t do it until Seraf and Gus come back!”

The wives and Mother Leahila exchanged helpless looks and stared across at Ari – he had put the bed between them like a shield and stood on the opposite side, dark hair wide, eyes brimming with tears and frustration. He was in his wedding clothes, his hair braided, but he refused to wear the flowers and the veil, ripping them off every time one of the women tried to put it on his head. The wives and Therian had sent all the attendants out, but it didn’t calm Ari down – he was wild, unstable, hysterical.

“We can’t push the date back,” Kater tried to reason with the boy, her hands trembling. She was dressed in silver, her dark hair braided with white roses, “Ari, it’s custom, the fortnight is over you _must_ get married tonight.”

“But he hasn’t even written back!” Ari yelled, “Gus hasn’t even answered my letters! The journey takes two days, I’m sure it’ll come today or tomorrow and then...a-and then...”

“And then what?” Kater asked softly, approaching the bed. Ari flinched back like a scared animal and the woman froze; her brother in law had never been scared of her, but since Gahr attacked him he had been antsy and on edge. Her hand drifted to her belly protectively and she swallowed her own tears.

“Ari, Gus won’t come,” Eryel said. She was in light blue, white roses intertwined in her black braid, “But it’ll be alright. We’re here. We’ll have a good time. You’ll even be allowed wine tonight, lots and lots of wine, I promise.”

“I don’t want wine! I don’t want to go! I don’t want to marry _him.”_

He had promised he’d be a good Prince and make his family proud and he had gone to the celebrations and all the meetings and greeted all the guests, but now that the wedding was a mere hour away he felt like he was going to be sick. The world had tilted and he was once again a little, scared boy squeezed between sweaty children who were poking him and calling him names and not understanding how terrified he was, how much of the world made no sense. Only Gus understood.

“I need them to come back,” Ari’s breath was coming out laboured, panicked. His vision was clouding around the edges. He leaned heavily against the wall, “I-I need them to come back-“

“They won’t!” Kater shouted, startling everyone. Silence fell over the room and all eyes landed on her. She was squeezing her stomach, eyes full of tears, “They’re not coming back.”

“Hey,” Burha said, gently touching her shoulder. She was in green and had the same roses as her lover in her hair, “They will. They won’t be gone forever...”

The Leahil turned away and covered her mouth, fighting a sob, “What if he doesn’t?” she whispered, “What if Seraf doesn’t come back?”

Arian stared at her, watched the other women drift towards her and rub her back. Saw the hand on her stomach. His vision cleared.

“You’re having a baby,” he said, understanding. The woman turned to him, and nodded as Eryel, Burha and Therian looked at her in shock.

“Yes,” she smiled through her tears, “I’m pregnant. And I’m afraid Seraf will die and will never meet his child.”

“Don’t say that,” Therian said, desperately grabbing her daughter-in-laws hand and staring at her still-flat stomach, “he’ll be fine. He’ll be back.”

 _What if he won’t?_ Ari’s heart pounded but his breathing steadied. He thought, for the first time that his brother and Gus might never return...and then it’d be him who’d become Leahil. A scared child couldn’t be the Leahil. He took a deep breath and came around the bed, picked up his flower circlet off the ground and carefully placed it on his head. Then he turned to Kater. The flowers were lopsided on his dark hair.

“He’ll come back,” he said firmly, “Just not tonight.”

Kater wiped her face and took a shaky breath and then approached Ari. She straightened the flowers in his hair.

“I am so proud of you, and I am so, so sorry.”

The first courtyard looked gorgeous. Golden pews formed a circle around the outer edge surrounded by lemon trees, facing into the courtyard. Red and gold sashes hung from the upper balconies, and waterfalls of flowers cascaded to the ground. There were vases filled with hibiscus and roses, and candles strewn everywhere, illuminating the courtyard. On a carpet of flowers in the centre stood six priests, one for each nation of the empire, with the head priest of Hadia at the front, a black turban on his head, his dark face covered in wrinkles and sagging skin. He had deep-set, wise, patient eyes and his old hands trembled as he held onto the First Scroll of Urofis; the scroll of love.

Gahr stood to the Priest’s left, dressed in a black shirt and doublet, his neck covered. Over one shoulder he had a golden sash, and a golden circlet on his head. He looked pale, like a man who had come to his death sentence and he glared at the whispering, excited guests that had gathered in the pews.

Kater and Eryel sat together in one of the first pews, alongside Therian. On the other pews sat the other five Leahils of the Empire; the sensible dark-haired Shalta Abazza, the Leahila of Arid, and the young, beautiful, mysterious Erohna Abazza, the Leahila of Lakosta, two of Ari’s cousins. There was Priapalla Abazza, with her stark white hair and wrinkled face and mischievous smile, the older sister of Ari’s father and the Leahila of Jarrej. Next to her sat her balding son, Ardef Abazza, the Leahil of Amran. Finally, on the end, sat a little boy no older than ten – Lohi Abazza, Ari’s cousin, whose father had died the past year in a Beau attack, making the child the Leahil of Nuxvar, the smallest nation of the Empire. They all sat together, waiting to see how Ari would perform, unknowing about how fragile the boy was.

Burha reached for Eryel’s hand and for once it was the raven-haired woman who was the calm one, watching the older woman out of the corner of her eye. Her lover couldn’t seem to stay still, her eyes flitting around the room, her leg jittering beneath her dress.

“Calm down,” the dark-haired girl whispered to Burha.

“I can’t,” the woman snapped back in a quiet voice, “This is all so wrong.”

She wanted something to happen; an explosion, a sudden attack, someone to stand up and have an anxiety fit, someone to faint, someone to scream. This marriage was so wrong that it didn’t make sense that the sashes swayed gently in the breeze and the candles burned, and the night remained calm and peaceful and warm as if nothing was happening. If there was a God, and he was so intent on the Shairin loving each other, how was he allowing for this to happen?

A murmur went through the crowd as Ari appeared out of one of the arches leading within the Harem, his arm intertwined with Kater’s. He looked gorgeous, scared and flushed, but gorgeous. The crowd seemed to hold their breath, their eyes following the boy in crimson. He kept his eyes straight ahead, barely registering anything. When Kattie came to a stop to the priest’s right and went to withdraw her arm, he only gripped onto her for a moment before letting her go. He didn’t look at her, or at Gahr, who was staring at him. His eyes were focused somewhere over his fiancée’s shoulder.

“Brothers and sisters, sons and daughters!” the Priest began, his voice carrying over the courtyard and shushing the people, “We have gathered here on this beautiful night to see the union between Prince Omarian Abazza and Lord Gahr Rahun, the first marriage for the both of them and one encouraged by the mysterious God who had blessed us with the Scrolls of Urofis...”

He continued to speak as he unrolled the scroll he held, but Ari’s mind didn’t register his words, just his low, raspy voice. Another one of the priests came up and tied a red ribbon around Ari’s wrist, then around Gahr’s, pulling their hands together. The ribbon was soft, and it felt like it was slowly suffocating Ari’s through his arm.

Meanwhile, at the gates of the Harem, two riders climbed off their camels.

“Should we change?” Gus huffed, slightly sweaty, his purple cloak dirty with sand, “It seems inappropriate-“

“Who knows if there’s time,” Seraf’s eyes stared at his home looming over head. It seemed awfully quiet. He started forward.

“Wait!” Gus grabbed his arm, “What...what are we doing? What...,” he shook his head, tried to gather his thoughts and steady his pounding heart, “Are we here for support, or are we here to...,” he trailed off. _Are we here to save him?_ Hung in the air between them.

“I don’t know,” Seraf whispered.

“Leahil!” the guards from the front door rushed towards the two figures, “Leahil, what are you doing here?!” the men bowed.

“No need,” Seraf waved them off frantically, “No time. What of the wedding?”

The guards exchanged surprised looks, “It’s...taking place right now. Started a moment ago.”

“Take the camels to the stables!” Seraf ordered and threw himself towards the door, but Gus was already running. The two exploded into the dark, cool corridor and ran towards the First Courtyard, where not so long ago Seraf’s third wedding had happened.

They slowed when the voice of the priest floated towards them.

“...we remember the first Leahil and his love, for whom he was ready to give up his kingdom...”

The two men stooped in the shadows of the entry into the Harem, and looked out onto the courtyard with bated breath. When Gus saw Ari standing opposite Gahr his knees almost gave out and he completely forgot how to breathe.

His hand gripped Seraf’s arm, and the Leahil looked at him in surprise, but Gus’ eyes were glued to Ari like he was the only thing Gus was seeing.

“I love him,” Gus whispered.

“I know,” Seraf assured him calmly.

“I can’t let this happen,” Gus’ eyes filled with tears. He saw his Ari, his beautiful, beautiful Ari, about to marry someone else, “I-I...I can’t let someone hurt him. I love him so, so much, I-,” he choked on a sob and let go of Seraf’s arm. The Leahil waited for him to burst forward and protest the marriage, but Gus didn’t; he remained the disciplined Odelian he was, not ready to sacrifice a whole country’s future for the sake of his selfish happiness.

Seraf smiled, “Hadia will be fine,” he said, and stepped forward, pulling Gus into the light behind him. As if by accident, he knocked over a tall candle. It wobbled, then tipped, falling slowly and slamming into the ground behind the back pews. Guests yelped and jumped up and the priest stopped speaking.

All eyes turned to Seraf and Gus – gasps, whispers.

“Seraf?!” Kater was on her feet in seconds, mouth in a pretty ‘o.’

Gus’ eyes met Ari’s. The Prince started at him for a moment, expression shocked. His brain tried to comprehend what he was seeing. And then his whole face brightened. It was as if someone had lit a fire inside him; at once he forgot his duties, all the promises he made to himself. It was only Gus that existed – Gus, who had come back.

Before anyone could even think about stopping him Ari violently ripped the ribbon that tied him to Gahr from his wrist and broke into a run, sprinting between the pews. Gus didn’t try and ask him to act correct, to do the right thing. Instead he finally broke and met the boy half-way, arms open. Ari tumbled into them and Gus stumbled back but he held onto the Prince, squeezing the life out of him. Ari clung onto him, laughing, eyes wet.

“You came back,” he sobbed, arms squeezing around Gus’ neck, “you came back.”

“Of course,” Gus whispered feverishly, cradling Ari close, “Of course. I love you. I love you so much.”

The guests watched the exchange with bated breath, leaning in to try and catch the whispers. Gahr felt a fury within him, and then he felt that fury leave, replaced by a heartbreak. How he wished Satima could appear out of the dark, how he wished he could take her into his arms the way the Odelian did to his fiancée, almost husband. He looked at the red ribbon on his wrist, hanging downwards limply.

The priest rolled up his scroll and turned to Therian, who was in shock.

“I cannot conduct this marriage,” he told her quietly, privately, “Urofis teaches that love is most important and the Prince clearly loves somebody else.”

Mutely, Therian nodded, eyes glued to her newly arrived first-born, and Gus. Kattie lost control too, and weaved between the pews, hand on her stomach. She fell into Seraf’s arms and he showered her with kisses.

“My love,” he whispered, “Oh how I’ve missed you.”

Eryel stood on a pew, “The wedding is cancelled!” she yelled. A groan of disappointment went through the crowd, “But the reception is happening!” the groan turned into a cheer.

Gahr turned to Therian. The woman bowed her head, “My apologies, my Lord. We will discuss the treaty on the morrow.”

“Yes, of course,” he threw another glance at Gus and Ari, who hadn’t let go of each other, and then hurried towards the closest staircase. He just wanted this night to be over.

Ari was hyperventilating in Gus’ arms, clinging onto him like an anaconda trying to strangle its prey. Burha and Eryel hurried towards them as guests began to stand, staring.

“Go,” Burha shoved them towards the staircase leading to Ari’s room, “Go, go, quick.”

Ari released Gus, but grabbed onto his hand and the Odelian hurriedly pulled him along. They stumbled into the corridor, through the entry hall and up the stairs. Their hands were sweaty as they gripped onto each other and they startled the odd servant that was carrying linens or candles. On the first floor they hurried past the guest bedrooms, up another set of stairs, like two madmen. Ari lost his silk slippers somewhere on the steps. They came up by the Grand Baths, rounded the beautifully decorated fountain, and then rushed up the stairs that brought them right outside Ari’s chambers.

They exploded inside, and Ari stumbled to the heart of the room as Gus hurriedly locked the doors, afraid there was a hoard of guards running after them to try and keep them apart. Then he turned.

The fear disappeared. The two men panted as they looked at each other, trying to catch their breaths. Someone had lit the fire in the fireplace, and prepared the room for Ari’s and Gahr’s wedding night. The canopied bed had rose petals strewn across the milky white sheets, and candles and vases of flowers decorated every surface. Everything smelled fresh. The window was open, the partly transparent white curtains shifting in the night breeze. Sweet music drifted upwards, distant and quiet as the celebrations below began.

Gus couldn’t believe he was here again. Ari took one, tentative step towards him, bare toes curling against the carpets, afraid that Gus would disappear if he was too sudden, too eager, if he showed his love too openly. He still didn’t understand what just happened, that the wedding didn’t take place.

Gus closed the rest of the space between them, unable to stay back. Ari’s hands found his face as he was taken into Gus’ arms.

“You’re here, you’re here,” the Prince whispered feverishly, like a prayer, brushing his hands over Gus’ cheeks, dirty and sweaty from the journey. The golden bangles on his wrists tinkled.

Gus kissed him, the way he had yearned to kiss him for so many years – unashamed, not held back by his need to be proper, not thinking about consequences. He was overcome by love, terrified of how close he had come to losing this boy he loved so much.

His mouth moved against Ari’s with passion, and the Prince allowed himself to be swept up in the kiss; it was all he had ever wanted, Gus was all he ever wanted. He wound his arms around the Odelian’s neck, parted his lips and allowed the man’s tongue into his mouth. It was unlike kissing Gahr or Eri. _This_ kiss made him tingle in all the right places, made a fire burn in the pit of his stomach. His clothes felt too heavy, he wanted to pull them off and feel Gus’ naked skin against his. They looked out of two different worlds; Ari dressed so prettily, dainty, with flowers in his hair. And Gus, towering over him, broad and dirty, still wearing parts of his armour, his sword at his side.

They kissed until their jaws ached and their lips were swollen; every brush of their tongues sent shivers racing up spines, every finger tangled in hair urged them to press closer. They finally pulled apart after what seemed like a little eternity and panted into each other’s mouths, half-closed eyes glued to each other.

Ari’s eyebrows furrowed, “Why did you leave?” he whispered, gripping Gus’ face.

“I’m sorry,” Gus stroked his cheeks, kissed the corner of his mouth, “I shouldn’t have.”

Ari closed his eyes and fought a sob, “I was so scared,” he mumbled. Gus kissed his forehead, the tip of his nose; he couldn’t stop touching the boy.

“I shouldn’t have left,” Gus repeated desperately, “I should have-“

Ari silenced him with a hungry kiss. He wanted to know what Gus had to say but he was scared the kissing would stop soon and wanted to get the most of the man’s lips and tongue before it was over.

But it didn’t stop. Gus walked the two of them backwards until the back of Ari’s legs hit his bed and they fell onto it together, tangled in each other, kicking up rose petals that fluttered messily back onto the covers or onto the floor. They separated only so Ari could toss aside his gold jewellery and Gus could drop his sword to the ground, then they were back together, melting into one.

The kiss deepened and with Gus on top of him, Ari felt like he was sheltered from the world. He parted his thighs and Gus slid between them automatically, but when he tried to pull back Ari didn’t let him, wrapping his legs around the Odelian’s waist.

“Ari,” Gus forcefully ended the kiss but kept his arms on either side of Ari’s head. He plucked stray flowers from his hair and then kissed his forehead once more, drinking in the sight of the boy, “ _God_ , Ari,” he choked out.

Ari looked up at him with eyes black with desire, and yet simultaneously so full of innocence. He reached up and ran his fingers through Gus’ brown hair, messing it up out of its normal slicked-back state. When it fell against his forehead it made Gus look so much younger and softer.

“Is the marriage ceremony over?” the Shairin asked in a whisper, hands lingering on Gus’ head.

“I think so,” the Odelian didn’t want to make any promises, “I...I hope so.”

Ari smiled sweetly, “Does that mean I can marry you now?”

Gus’ expression crumbled and he felt like he was going to cry. He leaned his forehead against Ari’s, stared into his dark eyes, “I want to,” he whispered hoarsely, “I want to marry you. So badly. I love you.”

Ari looked sad, “You don’t love me properly though,” his fingers fiddled with the badge on his shoulder that held Gus’ cloak pinned to his back, “Not the way I love you.”

Gus looked down at him helplessly. He and Ari had been this physically close before but this time it was different. Gus reached behind the Prince’s slender neck and undid his braid, pulling his hair free so the waves fanned out around his face. It made him look softer. The Odelian placed his hand on Ari’s chest, and then slid it down his soft red shirt. Ari shivered.

“In what way do you love me?”

Ari blushed a little, then turned his innocent eyes to Gus, “In the way you’re supposed to love your husband,” he said quietly, voice soft, “I want to kiss you. And to do other things with you. Share your bed.”

He said it without looking away, not realising what those words would do. Gus grabbed his face, rougher than he intended, and crashed their mouths together. Ari let out a breathy gasp as Gus’ tongue slid into his mouth and the Odelian pushed him into the bed. In the back of his mind, Gus was still convinced someone was about to burst into the bedroom and drag him off Ari, he thought that they didn’t have time.

He pulled back and looked at Ari, who was flushed and dazed, eyes unfocused.

“I love you in that way too,” he said adamantly, “I want to make love to you.”

Ari perked up, the man’s words made his toes curl and heat pool in his crotch, “Really?” he asked eagerly, then leaned up on his elbows, “Can we?” he asked, hope in his voice, “Can we right now?”

“Gods, Ari,” Gus said helplessly, “Yes, yes, we can. Fuck, I can’t believe I was just going to give you to that man.”

Gahr was far from Ari’s mind, the boy could barely even remember him. He smiled sweetly at Gus and the Odelian finally took a moment to look at Ari in the soft candle-light; the dark halo of his hair, the beautiful contrast of the crimson clothes against his dark skin. He carefully plucked the last hibiscus petal from the boy’s hair and then pushed his shirt up, revealing his soft, flat stomach.

He suddenly didn’t know what to do. He had dreamed about being like this with Ari for so many years but he had never thought it could actually happen...he brushed his fingertips over Ari’s bellybutton and the boy giggled, before confidently unclipping Gus’ cloak. The Odelian blinked as Ari slid it free and then threw it aside, before patting Gus’ chest armour.

“Can you take this off?”

“Y-Yeah,” Gus said and eagerly ripped the thing off, tossing it aside. The _clang_ it made as it fell sounded awfully loud.

Gus didn’t know how to breathe, he felt out of his depth. His hair was messy, he was just in a white tunic now, his eyes unsure and brimming with love. He was no longer a military general, he was just a boy.

“Gus,” Ari said.

“Yeah?”

“Do you want to marry me?”

Gus smiled, his heart filling with warmth, “Yes, of course,” he kissed Ari quickly, “I’d love to be your husband.”

“Why couldn’t you have been mine before?” Ari didn’t understand.

Gus didn’t want to explain the politics of Hadia to him, why the alliance with the Rahun’s was needed, why it didn’t matter anymore because Gahr would never agree to a wedding after this.

“It doesn’t matter, I’m yours now. I’ve always been yours, I just...I don’t want anyone else,” Gus said sincerely, the love he had tried to choke down for so many months burning his heart now.

Ari tugged him down for a quick, innocent kiss. They pulled apart and looked at each other, and Gus pecked Ari on the mouth once more. As he was pulling back, Ari’s hand tightened on Gus’ neck and he forced him back down, and kissed him properly.

Ari’s hands tugged on Gus’ shirt, pulling it over the man’s head and ending the kiss simultaneously, though the moment Gus shirt was free and thrown somewhere aside, Ari kissed him again. Gus was taken aback by the ferocity of the boy, the wild abandon with which he touched the Odelian. Gus’ head spun and he could barely focus on continuing to kiss as he felt Ari’s hands drag over his muscled torso, leaving lines of fire behind.

The Prince’s head flopped back against the pillows and he pouted, looking up at Gus, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Gus said breathlessly, heart pounding, “Nothing.”

“You’re not...,” Ari bit his lip, “You’re hesitant. You’re hesitating,” hurt crept into his voice, “Is it because I’m not pretty enough? I-I can change if you’d like, if it’ll make you more...”

Gus grabbed his hand and jerked it forward, pressing it against his crotch. Ari’s eyes widened when he felt how hard the Odelian was.

“Ari, you are the most beautiful person in this whole entire world,” Gus whispered, “and right now you look...,” he couldn’t finish but Ari felt where he was touching swell some more. Gus’ hand tightened on his wrist, “but I don’t want to rush this and scare you.”

Ari blinked and slipped his hands into Gus’ leggings. This time Gus’ eyes widened.

“Ari wait-“ he started, but Ari’s slender fingers already found his erection and he wrapped them around them with curiosity. He enjoyed the way the hot flesh seemed to pulse in his grip when he gave it a stroke.

“F-Fuck,” Gus gasped and his head dropped to Ari’s shoulder, hands gripping the pillows on the sides of his head. Ari liked that reaction so he repeated the movement, with his free hand stroking the short hairs at the nape of Gus’ neck. The Odelian’s legs trembled and one of his hands slid to Ari’s waist and he left it there, his breathing growing harsher in Ari’s ear the faster the boy stroked him. It was surreal, knowing that it was Ari who was touching him, and the more he thought about that, the more intense the pleasure got.

“Stop,” Gus grabbed Ari’s wrist after a minute, “Stop, or I’ll...,” he pulled back and Ari was awed at his dishevelled appearance. Gus was always so perfect, so in control, and now he was an aroused mess. _Because of me,_ Ari’s heart pounded, “I don’t want to ruin your wedding clothes,” Gus murmured, “You’ll need them again.”

Ari smiled the brightest smile, as if he was the sun himself and Gus swooped down to kiss him, was unable to stop himself. He tugged at Ari’s shirt and the boy shimmied out of it, and then kicked off his trousers. Beneath it he wore nothing. He laid there, alluring and arousing, completely unaware of his own beauty and looking up at Gus expectantly.

It was like there was not enough air in the room, and Gus couldn’t find the words to tell Ari just how breathtaking he was.

“Gus, come on,” the Prince whined impatiently, and tugged at Gus’ leggings.

The man kicked off his boots, then his leggings, a little embarrassed at his own arousal when his cock sprung free, completely hard. He couldn’t help the effect that Ari had on him, but he wished he appeared more cool and experienced. The truth was he had only had intercourse a handful of times and he was nervous because this was _Ari_ and Gus wanted everything to be perfect.

“I’m...uh...,” Gus looked down at their dicks; Ari’s little, pretty one with a patch of dark curls at the base, and his own much bigger one, jutting out indecently. He suddenly felt as if he was no better than Gahr, shamelessly taking what he wanted.

Ari didn’t think that, because he tackled Gus backwards onto the bed so Odelian found himself staring at the canopy overhead.

“Ari, don’t-“

But Ari’s hand was already gripping the base of the man’s cock, and his curiosity got the best of him; the man’s dick was white and hard and glistening with precum and so different from Ari’s own and it was like he was seeing it for the first time – he was no longer casting longing, secret glances at it while he and Gus changed together. Now he was allowed to look and touch.

His tongue slipped from between his lips and he licked up the member as if it were an ice cream. Gus gasped, eyes flying wide open. Ari gave him an experimental pump and the put the head of his cock in his mouth, sucking thoughtfully. It was a little salty but he didn’t mind.

Words died on Gus’ tongue; he was supposed to be the one teaching Ari, taking care of him...meanwhile he was paralysed on the bed as pleasure raced up his spine and spread throughout his body.

Ari released the dick, “Eri said it’s good to put it in your mouth,” he said, a little proudly, “Am I doing it right?”

Gus glanced down at him just as Ari put his cock back in his mouth. He was looking up at Gus with his doe-like eyes, framed by dark eyelashes, as he hollowed his cheeks and took more of the man’s member into his mouth.

“Y-Yeah,” Gus whispered and one of his hands unclenched from the sheets and slid into Ari’s hair, gently nudging him down a bit further. The Prince frowned but took it obediently, “You’re doing it r-right. You’re doing it perfect. You’re perfect- _fuck,”_ Gus head flopped back down onto the bed. He closed his eyes as they rolled back and let waves of pleasure crash over him.

Ari sucked and licked at his erection like a hungry kitten, until Gus’ cock was wet and precum was dribbling down the side and there was a sinful line of spit connecting his bottom lip to the head of Gus’ penis.

“E-Enough,” the man whispered after he began to feel like he was melting. He nudged Ari’s head away and the Prince pouted, and sat back.

“I like doing it though,” he said, wiping his chin, “You make these breathy sounds that make me feel...,” he bit his lip. Gus swallowed and sat up also. The flickering light of the candles danced on Ari’s naked body.

Gus shifted closer and cupped the boy’s flushed cheek in his hand. Ari smiled, his eyes fluttering shut as he leaned into the Odelian’s palm. Then he opened his eyes and looked right at Gus.

“Are you going to put it inside me now?” he asked.

Gus’ heart twisted and his stomach clenched, _“Ari,”_ he blurted, “Y-You can’t just say such s-shameless things...”

When had his best friend grown to become so obscene? Gus remembered his hungry kisses after one of the parties...maybe Ari wasn’t as innocent as Gus imagined, maybe he didn’t need protecting from the world...

The Odelian leaned forward and pressed his face into Ari’s neck, still holding his cheek. He kissed his skin gently.

Ari giggled, “That tickles,” he whispered, tangling his fingers in Gus’ hair.

Gus kissed him again, open-mouthed this time, then allowed for his tongue to slide out and explore the boy’s neck. Ari let out a soft sigh, then a giggle.

“F-Feels funny,” he mumbled, frowning. Gus nibbled at his pulse point, then sucked at the skin gently. Ari let out a tiny, surprised moan, eyes fluttering shut, “G-Gus...,” the merriment was gone from his voice, replaced by breathless arousal. He cradled the Odelian’s head closer and when Gus’ hand sneaked to wrap around his cock he bucked in the man’s hands.

Gus pushed him back onto the bed gently and kissed down the boy’s neck, his shoulder, his narrow chest. Ari whimpered sweetly when Gus took one of his nipples into his mouth and sucked gently, rolling the other one between his fingers.

Ari’s eyes began to close halfway and his breath came out funny, but he wasn’t scared. He felt hot, but hot from the inside, and wanted Gus to touch him absolutely everywhere.

The Odelian’s eyes landed on the purple vial by the bedside table, between the candles. He knew it was oil that had been meant for Gahr to use on Ari and, gripped by sudden jealousy, he snatched it and sat back, pouring copious amounts onto his hand. Some dribbled on the sheets.

Ari watched him, “What’s that for?”

“I need to prepare you,” Gus explained, “I’ll put a few of my fingers inside you, so that I don’t hurt you when I use my-,” he blushed, swallowed, “Is that alright?”

Ari smiled, almost lazily, and nodded, “Everything you do feels good.”

Gus smiled too and pecked his love on the lips, “I’m glad.”

When he nudged at the Prince’s legs Ari opened them willingly, revealing his pink hole, surrounded by little black curls. Gus felt dizzy just looking at it so he leaned over Ari and kissed him again to steady himself.

His hand found the boy’s entrance and he circled one of his wet fingers around it. Everything was happening so fast and yet it felt as if the room was detached from the rest of the world; time travelled differently here, slowly and lazily, and outside a party raged.

“Are you sure?” Gus breathed against Ari’s mouth. The boy nodded feverishly and looped his arms around Gus’ shoulders.

“I want you,” he whispered, “please.”

Gus pushed the first digit into the boy and Ari tensed a little, squirmed, let out a whistling breath as it slid all the way inside him. It was tight, Gus could feel the boy’s hot walls clenching around him and he couldn’t imagine how he’d ever manage to get his cock inside the boy.

But Ari relaxed quickly. He nuzzled his face against Gus’, kissed his nose and between his eyebrows, fiddled with his hair. When Gus pulled his finger out and nudged it back in, Ari shivered a little but didn’t react except for that.

Gus kept his eyes glued to the boy, gauging his every reaction as he moved the finger in and out of him.

“How does it feel?”

“Fine,” Ari said, “A little weird.”

 “Can I put another one in?”

The boy nodded. Gus pushed another digit in, and Ari gasped.

“O-Oh,” he whispered, “O-Oh, t-that’s...,” his arms loosened around Gus’ neck and his eyes slid shut. Gus watched as he leaned back into the pillows, biting his lip.

As Gus began to slowly thrust two fingers inside Ari, the boy felt overwhelmed. It felt peculiar, and it kind of ached, but after a few moments Ari relaxed and little pinpricks of heat rushed through him. He realised it was pleasure he was feeling. The push of the digits inside him made his belly knot up, and the feeling only continued to grow. Soon Ari was breathing hard and squirming, grinding down on Gus’ hand.

“Does that feel good?” Gus asked, drunk on Ari’s little moans. The boy nodded feverishly.

“Y-Yes,” he whispered.

Gus pushed a third finger in. It was a tight fit but Ari took it well, arching up into the burn. He started to pant, fingers digging into Gus’ biceps. The Odelian’s hand began to move on its own accord; he wanted to go slow and steady, but somehow he found himself shoving his digits into Ari harder and faster by the second. It was a sight Augustus thought he’d never see; Ari arching up onto his hand, naked and hard and moaning his name. It was exhilarating and the boy drank up the Prince’s reactions greedily.

“G-Gus...,” Ari mewled, tossing and turning against the pillows as if he didn’t know how to comprehend all the pleasure, “A-Ah...I-I... _nghh..._ G-Gus...Gus... _Gus...,”_ Ari could barely remember any other word except for the Odelian’s name.

“You’re doing so good,” Gus kissed his sweaty forehead and slowed down again, “so perfect.”

He withdrew his hand and showered Ari’s face with kisses as the boy sagged against the bed, trying to catch his breath and waiting for his world to stabilise. He opened his eyes and saw Gus staring down at him, eyes full of love.

They kissed, wet and a little sloppy, their lust getting the best of them. They pressed their bodies together and grinded their cocks against each other, and licked their way into the other’s mouth while their hands grabbed at every inch of exposed skin.

Gus was stalling, Ari knew this. He slid his legs up to the man’s waist and wrapped them around him, tugging him close. He grabbed Gus’ face.

“You can do it,” he mumbled, “put it in, I mean.”

Gus nodded, “Alright,” he reached for the oil with a trembling hand and lubbed up his cock. He was nervous, but he remained painfully hard.

Ari laid on the bed, muscles relaxed. He wasn’t nervous or tense – he trusted Gus completely.

“This might hurt a little,” Gus warned Ari as he lined his erection with the boy’s entrance. His insides were all in knots and his cock throbbed just at the thought of being inside the boy. He had wanted this for so long, “I’ll try my best to be gentle.”

Ari smiled and stroked Gus’ cheek, “I know.”

The Odelian gently started to push his dick inside Ari. The boy’s body resisted, and then all of a sudden gave way and the head of the brunet’s cock slid inside. Ari gasped, eyes flying open. He tensed.

“G-Gus-,” he whispered, scared as pain spiked through him.

“I know,” Gus whispered, intertwining his fingers with Ari’s and pressing them into the bed, “Shh, shh, I know.”

He stayed still and breathed shallowly, trying to maintain control over himself. He thought of other things; of the generals still in Dorocium and all the military plans, he counted camels in his head, anything to distract himself from the tight heat that was clenching around the part of his dick that was inside Ari, trying to climb away from the edge of completion.

The Prince saw the concentration in Gus’ eyes as he stared at the wall, the sweat beading on his forehead, the frown between his brows. The pain began to ebb away and Ari relaxed into the bed.

“It’s alright,” he said in a trembling voice, squeezing Gus’ fingers, “You can-“

He didn’t get to finish because Gus slid in another few inches, couldn’t stop himself. Another gasp was punch out of Ari and he squeezed Gus hands painfully, panting for air. He felt the burn of being stretched out.

“I-I don’t like it,” he whimpered.

Gus’ heart clenched, “I’m sorry,” he gushed and pulled out swiftly. Ari shivered when he did, and although the pain was gone he felt bizarrely empty now. Gus gathered him up in his arms and showered his hair and face with kisses, “I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry.”

Ari hugged him tightly, kissed him clumsily. The fever went away for a moment and the boys stilled.

“Is there something wrong with me?” Ari asked.

“No,” Gus whispered, wishing he could somehow make Ari feel the love he had for him, “No, there is absolutely nothing wrong with you.”

Ari exhaled. He was scared that if he wasn’t perfect Gus would leave him again. But the Odelian just nudged him back down on the bed.

“Let’s stop for tonight.”

“No,” Ari said firmly, stubbornly, “No, I want you to make love to me. You promised.”

Gus shivered, his cock twitched. It had grown soft but now it began swelling again. Ari spread his legs.

“Try again...please?”

Gus nodded, mouth dry. He poured more oil onto his erection and began pushing it into Ari again. The boy squeezed his eyes against the pain.

“Y-You need to relax,” Gus panted, gripping Ari’s hip with one hand, “T-Tell me about the book you last read.”

“W-What?” Ari opened his eyes, and his impossibly tight hole gave way a little. Gus sank into him incredibly slowly.

“What book did you read last?”

“U-Um...,” Ari tried to remember. The world outside of this bed seemed not to exist, “I-It was about...about...,” he relaxed, he tried to remember. Gus shoved the last inch into him, “ _Ah!”_ Ari cried out, arching up.

Gus was breathing hard above him, sweat beading on his body, “Gods,” he whispered.

“I-Is it in?” Ari trembled and tried to sit up, but couldn’t, “Is it all in?”

Gus nodded, kissed Ari wetly. The boy relaxed into the bed and whimpered in Gus’ mouth. It didn’t hurt so much, and he had finally done well. He felt drunk.

“I feel so full,” he whispered sleepily against the Odelian’s mouth. Gus kissed him harder, his member pulsating inside Ari. It felt heavenly, it was better than Gus could have dreamed.

The candles dripped wax onto the cabinets and below in the garden and courtyards the party raged; the wedding might have not happened but the Shairin never said no to a night of drinking and frolicking. Nobody bothered Ari and Gus; they were all alone.

They laid tangled together, sweaty and breathing hard, stroking each other’s skin and whispering _I love you’s_ into each other’s mouths as Ari got adjusted to the feeling of Gus’ cock stretching him out. They remained like that for half an hour, kissing lazily.

Gus started moving automatically, tiny movements at first, without realising it really; he began by grinding into Ari, and marvelling in the way the boy’s breath sped up as they kissed. Then he pulled out a little, lazily thrust back in, then he pulled back further.

He pushed his cock back inside Ari harder than intended. The Prince broke the kiss and threw his head back.

 _“Gus!”_ he whined, and Gus panicked, but it wasn’t a cry of pain – at this point the boy’s body was wet, open and soft. Ari gripped Gus’ wrists where the man’s hands rested on either side of his head, and moaned sweetly when Gus repeated the movement.

“Is that good?” the Odelian asked, and Ari nodded.

“F-Feels...,” he exhaled, moan, “feels l-like...t-there’s this heat j-just pushing inside me and spreading through m-me-“

Gus thrust in harder, and Ari arched out again.

 _“Ah!”_ he moaned, “G-God...G-Gus...I-I...,” he couldn’t speak anymore as Gus set a rhythm; not too fast, taking his time. He finally realised they had all the time they wanted.

Ari’s eyes were half closed, unfocused, his cheeks flushed.

 “You look so lovely,” Gus whispered, thrusting faster, “I don’t want anyone else to see you like this.”

Ari shook his head violently, his curls shifting, “I d-don’t want anyone else,” he promised breathlessly.

Gus grabbed one of his legs and pushed it up, plunging deeper into the Prince. Ari trembled, feeling as if Gus was hitting his guts. Pleasure spread through him, he couldn’t breathe.

“Gus,” he sobbed, clawing at the bed, tears welling in his eyes, “G-Gus...i-it’s so...it’s... _nghhh...”_

“Fuck,” Gus gasped, ramming his cock into the boy. Ari had relaxed so much at this point that his body simply took Gus, squelching obscenely as the oil slid down his thighs.

The sound carried through the room, mixed with their laboured breathing and moans. Gus felt addicted, couldn’t stop shoving his cock into Ari over and over. And the boy just took it, thighs trembling and mouth opened as he moaned sweetly.

“I love you,” Gus grunted.

“I-I love-,” Ari couldn’t finish, his moans mixing with sobs. Gus could feel himself getting close – it was too much, the sight of Ari drowning in pleasure, the feeling of his body, the knowledge that the boy was utterly his, at least for this moment.

The Odelian grabbed Ari’s dick in his hand and started stroking it in time with his more and more feverish thrusts. Ari’s mind clouded, he choked on air and arched up beautifully.

He came faster than Gus anticipated, overwhelmed. Gus wasn’t far behind though, and he tried to pull out but Ari wrapped his legs around his waist and kept him in place so Gus spilled his seed inside him. He felt like he was floating.

For a moment everything was still. Laughter and music drifted in through the open window, as if from another world.

Suddenly Ari’s erratic breathing turned into shallow, panicked sobs that sobered Gus up immediately. The boy pulled out and looked at Ari, who felt light-headed and didn’t know what the tremors wracking up his body was.

“I-I,” he sniffled, tried to catch his breath. _Don’t ruin it, don’t ruin it,_ “I-I just-“

“Shhhh,” Gus gathered him up and collapsed on the bed next to the boy, pulling him up against him, “Ari. Ari. Breathe.”

Ari breathed shakily. Gus kissed his forehead.

“What’s wrong?”

“I-I don’t know,” Ari squeeze his eyes shut, “I-It’s too much.”

“It’s alright,” Gus cradled him close protectively, “It’s just an orgasm. It’s normal.”

“I-I feel like I’m melting,” Ari whimpered. Gus smiled and kissed him on the mouth. He kissed him for so long until Ari’s breath began to calm.

“Is it a bad feeling?”

Ari looked up at him, and seeing Gus made the panic disappear. He shook his head. No, it felt nice. It felt nice to be held by Gus. He relaxed in his arms and reality settled in. Gus loved him, they had just made love.

“Oh,” Ari whispered softly, then hugged Gus tightly, “Oh.”

“Ari?” Gus asked, puzzled. Sleepiness was settling in and he felt content, refusing to think about anything but the boy in his arms.

“I’m yours,” Ari whispered against his shoulder.

Gus couldn’t move, overwhelmed. Then he squeezed Ari against him.

“Yeah,” he could cry, “Yeah, you are, and I’m yours. I don’t want anyone else.”

Ari craned his neck up so their noses touched. He pecked Gus’ sweetly on the mouth, “I won’t have any more husbands or wives. Seraf had to have two before he found Kater, but I already found you,” he smiled adorably.

Gus kissed him desperately, “Promise me,” he said feverishly, “Promise me you’ll always be mine.”

Ari nodded, curled his arms around Gus’ neck, “I promise.” He thought for a moment, then asked, “Will I get pregnant?”

“I-,” Gus chuckled, “No. No, you’re a boy Ari, you won’t.”

Ari pouted.

“You should probably go to the bathroom and wash up,” Gus said.

Ari pulled the covers over them and snuggled up into Gus’ naked chest, “Later,” he whispered, and then, “I wish I could have our babies. They would be lovely.”

“You’re lovely,” Gus was grinning. He kissed Ari’s head, “And you’re mine. I can’t believe that.”

“They won’t make me marry Gahr, will they?” Ari remembered suddenly.

“No,” Gus hugged him tighter, “They won’t make you marry anyone.”

“Except you,” Ari closed his eyes, smiling, “But I want to marry you.”

**The following afternoon, somewhere.**

**_The Princess Allanna_ **

**Somewhere in the Summer Bay.**

****

The cheap woollen clothes scratched at Lysander’s skin; the Lord had grown used to furs and shirts of the highest Beau standard, but he had abandoned those luxuries when he abandoned his home country.

He stood on the prow of the Odelian ship he had boarded in what remained of the port in Elyn, staring at the sea ahead. Every day it was growing warmer and Lys found himself waking up in his ratty cabin that stank of fish, and wearing less and less layers every day.

The sea breeze was almost autumnal now, the air smelled of lingering warmth despite the chill coming off the glimmering water – winter was far behind him, perhaps forever. The sky was blue, dotted with brushes of white clouds and Lys stood with his hands gripping the old, slightly rotten wood of the prow in a long-sleeved brown woollen shirt and dark breeches. His hair was being tossed by the wind and his cheeks were red from the wind – he looked like a common youth from a village, and nobody would recognise the Lord Protector in him. Good.

The Captain of _Princess Allanna,_ an old, greedy Odelian man who made his fortune transporting diamonds from Voubrenia to Beauralt, had taken Lys’ money and given him a cabin and didn’t ask any questions. The Lord had been on board for five days now, and soon they would reach the shores of the beautiful land that he had only read in books about, and heard from Sef about. He didn’t know what to expect, it all seemed so fantastical; would there be winged beasts in the sky, and the god of life and the goddess of death walking among the people? Would fountains spurt golden water and people keep lions as pets?

Lysander shivered and hugged himself, nibbling on his bottom lip. Would Sef be glad to see him? What if he was too late and he and Beheret were already married? The Lord’s heart pounded in anxiety every time he thought of Sef looking at him with that cold, distant gaze. Would he still love him? Would he forgive Lysander?

Seagulls circled overhead. Land was close. Lys swallowed.

“Careful! _”_ a mate shouted and threw a pot of urine over the side of the ship. It splashed against the wood and Lys flinched backwards, drawn out of his day-dreams. He blinked and looked around the dirty ship where sailors crawled around like flies.

He hurriedly retreated to his cabin where, despite the smell and clamour of chests and books and old pots, he had some privacy. He laid down in the hammock that had been his bed for his time on the ship, suspended from the low, leaking ceiling and sighed. He wasn’t bothered by his discomfort, and thought only of what would happen when he reached Voubrenia. He would never be able to return home, and he worried for the fate of his mother, of Lord Rassel and Barry and all of Wildeshell.


	19. The New King

**The following night, bitter cold winter, 212CE**

**Cervantes, Adanard, Beavnird.**

**The North Islands.**

****

Callian’s hand trembled as he finished painting the intricate rune for peace on Maganna’s forehead, just as Orena finished dipping the body’s in the paint. The blue made the woman’s veins stand out, and her snow-white skin was accentuated and looked almost translucent. Maganna had never looked more dead.

The two druids had done the best they could in the last three days to conserve her body as the village mourned her death; she had slipped away just after she finished her conversation with Beorthion, as if she was just falling asleep. The Chief claimed her eyes had glazed over, and she had just gone.

Gwydion was nowhere to be seen – he had undoubtedly been called back to wherever he had come from all those years ago when Maganna was initiated as a druid. The other Spirit Guardians were present though; Mannannan sat on one of the bare branches of a tree on the edge of the beach where Orena and Cal were painting the body, behind the horde of villagers who were sniffling and crying in the winter evening, mourning the loss of their head druid. Airmid, Bris and Ogma were perched by Roan who was at his father’s side with his sisters; the three wildcats dutifully stood between their legs, keeping a distance from the druids like the rest of the villagers.

“Ready?” Orena asked softly when Cal stepped back. He nodded, throat tight. He had been fighting tears for three days, and there had always been eyes on him – he and Orena had stood vigil, given sacrifices, lead prayers. They had barely had time to rest and accept that their mentor was gone.

But they had done a good job. Maganna’s face, in death, looked softer and more relaxed and although she still appeared small and frail, they had put a cloak over her back, and pulled it over her head. It had two stag’s antlers jutting out of it – the last thing left by Gwydion in the snow – and made her look more majestic.

The druids stepped back, and Orena nodded at the crowd. Cal could barely look at them as he stood next to his companion.

The villagers surged forward; Beorthion and the village elders first. They dipped their fingers in the blue paint and touched them to the wooden platform Maganna was laying on. By the time the last of the sobbing children had brushed their fingers against it it, it was covered in blue.

“Go on!” Orena called in the night, breath clouding. She, as always, was more collected and in control than Callian, who could barely keep himself together, “It is time to send Maganna Uthreth, who had been our loyal head druid for many years, back to Sere’s watery palace, where she may feast and be laid to eternal peace.”

Four of the strongest men in the village, including Roan and Lug, lifted the wooden plank onto their shoulders, and began the procession towards the icy water lapping at the beach. The villagers followed behind them, a grim procession in furs, faces tight and drawn. The night bore silent witness to their grief.

Cal and Orena stood by the sea as the men set the plank in the water and lit torches around its edges. Soon Maganna was floating out, carried by the calm waves. Somehow her plank avoided the chunks of ice in the dark water and Cal watched with a heavy heart as the flickering torches grew smaller and smaller, until suddenly they disappeared underwater.

Orena exhaled – Maganna had been accepted by Sere.

Callian wanted to go to his hut, curl up and cry. The person closest to him, apart from Roan and his wildcats, was gone forever. He felt a gaping emptiness in his heart. But he wasn’t allowed to cry, and neither was Orena. It was dangerous for a village to be without a druid, without magic. The ritual to choose the next head druid would take place immediately, with no time for mourning.

A moment of silence followed Maganna’s body being taken by the waves. Then Beorthion spoke in his raspy, bellowing voice.

“Friends!” he called, and the villagers turned to look at him. His huge blond beard streaked with grey quivered when he spoke, “Although it is a hard time for all, and we have to say goodbye to a powerful woman who had done good for everyone in this village, we must now choose our next magical protector out of the two young adults that Maganna had put her faith in so many years ago!”

Callian felt eyes drilling into him, but he stood tall and proud and hoped he showed no fear. Roan watched him and couldn’t help the waves of pride that washed over him as he looked at the druid – _mine, all mine_.  He smiled. Truly, right now he could not see a trace of the shaking, scared boy Maganna had brought from the sea so many years ago.

Orena and Cal both knew what they had to do, Maganna had taught them this ritual when they were teenagers and they knew it by heart but it felt peculiar to do it in front of Beorthion and the villagers, and without the woman’s watchful eye tracing their every move.

Callian did the movements mechanically – he dipped his fingers in the same clay pot that held the blue paint they had anointed Maganna with. Orena did the same, and then the two druids drew runes on the other – for protection, power and wisdom. As they did so, both their minds on their mentor’s death, the village elders built a fire by the water. The wind was calm, the night starry and clear and bitterly cold.

Orena’s hands were steady and warm against Cal’s cheeks as she painted his face. The boy’s fingers were cold and trembling, and he felt unnerved by the fact he couldn’t read anything in the girl’s dual-coloured eyes. She was like the surface of a lake; calm and unmoved.

“Druids!” Beorthion called when the two finished their drawings. They turned to the Chief, who stood by the flames now roaring up from the snowy sand. Warmth radiated off the fire, and it cast golden and amber light onto the faces of the solemn villagers.

Cal’s heart pounded.

They knew what they had to do; they knew that one of them was about to endure terrible pain, and be disfigured for the rest of their lives...hopefully just one of them. In how many villages had Cal seen old druids with their hands crooked and full of welts and ugly scars?

He was sure he was about to become one of them.

“Druids,” Beorthion’s face looked unlike his own, the fire making the shadows deepen between his wrinkles, “The trial by fire is about to begin. Choose which of you will undertake it first.”

Cal looked as white as the snow mingled with the sand.

“I’ll go first,” Orena glanced at him smiling almost warmly. She could see how nervous he was, how afraid, and Cal was glad for her; he was sure she would become the Head Druid, and if she went first it might mean that Cal would be saved from all the pain and shame.

However as the girl went to step forward, Cal’s eyes landed on his wildcats. Their eyes were glued to him intensely. His heart pounded. His eyes trailed up to Roan, who was smiling at him encouragingly.

Somewhere in the trees, Mannannan cawed.

Cal jerked forward, pushed by an invisible force, “I’ll go first,” he blurted.

Beorthion seemed a little surprised but nodded and Orena gave Cal a puzzled look but stepped back with no hesitation, a little relieved. She wasn’t showing it, but she too was afraid. She looked at her hands; pale, slender, the fingers slightly too long. She didn’t want them to be scarred.

Cal approached the fire that blazed the same colour as his hair. He didn’t see the villagers anymore, or Roan, or his wildcats. He saw only the flames, alive and writhing in front of him, warm and inviting. The fear ebbed away. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t wait there and let the tension build.

He felt Maganna’s hand on his shoulder as he thrusts his hands into the flames.

Roan watched with bated breath, waited for Cal to recoil, to flinch or squeeze his eyes shut like a scared child. The blond didn’t doubt that the fire wouldn’t hurt him, and yet the sight of his love now, illuminated by flames, stoic and confident, hands in the fire, was striking. Cal wasn’t afraid.

He pulled his hands back and turned them over. Still too-white, still freckly, his nails bitten too short, his wrist-bones jutting out, the blue runes still intact.

Cal exhaled, and for a moment heard only the beating of his heart. Behind him Orena also let out a quiet, relieved sigh, a burden taken off her. It wasn’t going to be her.

Then the crowd exploded, breaking the peaceful silence – a cheer that sounded more like a roar rose up from them and Cal flinched, looking up. He had forgotten where he was and now his heart pounded as he was swarmed by villagers. He hadn’t been burnt, the fire had chosen him the way the sea had chosen him years ago. Hands touched his shoulders, his hair, laughter and shouts of his name echoed through the beach. He felt like he was in a dream, his eyes refused to focus on anybody’s face. It felt so surreal. If he had been hurt by the flames it would have meant he was not supposed to be the next head druid. But now...

Suddenly Beorthion was pulling him out of the crowd, easily as if Cal was a straw doll. He brought the boy next to him, heavy hand on the young druid’s narrow shoulder.

“Family! Friends!” Beorthion bellowed, a big grin on his face, the sadness of loosing Maganna fading for a moment, “The fire has chosen! The gods and Maganna’s spirit has chosen! Here stands Callian Cinnéide, our Head Druid!”

Callian couldn’t breathe. _I did it._ The crowd cheered again, deafening. His eyes found Orena, Mannannan on her shoulder. She smiled gently and bowed her head to him, no bitterness in her expression. Then he spotted Roan standing with his sisters, beaming with pride.

Cal’s wildcats raced between the legs of the villagers and shot towards him. Ogma couldn’t contain his excitement and stood on his hind legs, whacking his heavy paws against Cal’s chest. The touch brought Callian back to reality and the druid began to laugh as Bris licked at his hand. Airmid stood beside him, tall and proud, his eyes seemed to say _I told you._

“Now!” Beorthion roared, “Let us celebrate!”

The villagers didn’t have to be told twice as they filtered towards Cervantes, chattering with excitement. Cal watched their faces; he saw happiness and relief and pride. Nobody looked disappointed that he had been chosen. As people passed they bowed to him, and smacked his shoulders until they ached.

Orena was near the end of the procession. She stood in front of her companion and bowed her head again, “Congratulations, Head Druid.”

“I’m sorry,” Cal winced. Orena smiled mysteriously.

“Don’t be,” she said, “I am happy to be just an ordinary druid and serve next to you.”

Cal looked at her dual-coloured eyes. He took her hand, “There is nothing ordinary about you.”

She smiled, squeezed his hand, and drifted after the villagers.

Then suddenly Cal was being lifted off the ground. He squeaked and looked down at Roan’s beaming face. The blond spun him around until Cal was giggling and light-headed, then set him down and kissed him openly, passionately. The villagers that saw whistled at them, then laughed. Cal burned red when they separated, but felt too giddy to tell the man off.

“I told you,” Roan was breathless, and happy, “I told you you’d do it.” He grabbed the boy’s hands and brought them to his mouth, kissing them. Then he winked at the druid, “But I would have loved you regardless, even if you had been burnt.”

Cal laughed incredulously, “I’m sure.”

For the first time, he felt at home in Cervantes.

**Four days later, halfway across the world, autumn.**

**The Ivory Palace, Zora, Eaquithia.**

**Voubrenia.**

****

Sef had been back in his palace for some days now, and as he paced through the marble corridors and passed beneath the golden flags that hung in the throne room he knew that he had to announce his and Beheret’s engagement soon...and yet he was reluctant. His return home had not been triumphant and although he had been welcomed warmly and with relief by his people, he couldn’t help but feel like a stranger in his own home. Here were the gardens in which he played as a child, and here an alcove in the white walls where he his first kiss and yet it all felt alien, like all his memories before Wildeshell belonged to someone else, someone carefree and unburdened by heartbreak. The warmth and the clear blue sky and the light Voubren clothes all felt strange.

The King entered his private gardens that spread on a balcony outside his chambers and overlooked the gorgeous courtyard below. Even though it was framed by palm trees and high fountains, here Sef could still see the rest of his Eaquithia stretching out in front of him; the white and gold houses, the exotic trees, the nearby rainforest.

Here he felt at peace. He sat on a golden bench near the edge of the balcony, basking in the sun. He was many, many stories high up, higher than the tallest tree and the din of soldiers practicing in the courtyard and the chatter of attendants didn’t reach him up here. Here it was just him and his thoughts, and the yellow acacia tree beside him.

No matter that he had spent days on a ship, and days in his palace, and that the sun was slowly erasing all memory of the snow and the cold stone walls and the grey sky, Sef could _still_ hear Lysander’s voice in his head, shouting at him. _I could never love a monster like you!_ Words that, from anyone else, would have made Sef laugh now haunted his thoughts, stalked behind him just like Beheret did, demanding he publicly accept her as his wife.

Sef exhaled and closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of the afternoon breeze on his face. Hot. He had forgotten how hot Voubrenia was. He tried to remember as much of Wildeshell as he could – the pale face ladies in their big, puffy skirts, the wine that tasted like it was mixed with water. The way fog had enveloped the shore as if a shawl had been thrown over it. He remembered the fireplaces, and the carriages drawn by thin horses, and the feeling of Lysander’s hand in his...

How many days had it been since they parted ways?

“My King!” the shout jerked Sef violently out of his thoughts and his eyes snapped open. He looked at his hand, the golden arm-band around his wrist. He had almost felt the other man’s touch...

“What is it?” the King stood from the bench and turned to face the intruder. It was one of the servant boys, wide-eyed and flushed and excited – clearly he had ran here. It was unusual to see someone so moved in the Ivory Palace, where life was always easy and lazy and full of opulence. Still, Sef was unbothered, until he heard the servant’s next words.

“There’s a peculiar man in the throne room, a pale man who demands to speak to you,” the boy said breathlessly. Sef’s heart squeezed. _No, can’t be..._

“What does he look like?” he asked.

The servant shrugged, “Like a common peasant, your highness. The guards want to take him to a cell-“

Sef shoved past him and sprinted through his chambers, his heart in his throat. He exploded into the corridor and ran through the beige hallways full of beautiful paintings and golden vases overflowing with chrysanthemums and jasmine flowers. His sandals echoed through the palace as they slapped against the marble floors. Down spiral staircases, many of them, past the statues of naked women and huge giraffes. He finally charged down the painfully long, tall-ceiling hallway that lead to the Throne Room, the floor padded with honey-coloured carpet. Here the ceiling was glassed-over and tall bamboo trees grew by the walls and it felt almost as if Sef was running through a forest.

Finally the King stormed into the Throne Room, which was full of people – guards with their spears drawn, servants and interested lords and ladies that had drifted from the gardens. And there, in the throng of dark faces, Sef spotted _him_.

It was true, Lysander Harkness looked like a common peasant boy – he wore a long-sleeved shirt that perhaps once upon a time had been white but now was beige with dust, rolled up at the sleeves. His pale skin had burnt, and then tanned, and his brown hair had grown lighter and longer and more unruly. His face was streaked with dirt and sand, but his incredible charcoal eyes were still the same, looking at Sef in shock as if he hadn’t expected the King to be present in his own palace.

 _Oh,_ Lys thought. Sef looked just as he remembered, dark and mysterious, dripping in gold and bare-chested. And yet somehow he made so much sense here. In Wildeshell it felt as if Lys was looking at only a portion of a painting, a cut out of a man. And now he saw the rest of the painting – the arched ceilings and the exotic greenery creeping up the walls, and the golden crown encrusted with rubies that sat on Sef’s brow. No, this brilliant, gorgeous man didn’t belong in the grey, drab country that Lysander had once considered home. He belonged here. But did Lys look as out of place here? Was he an ugly, awkward mark on the beauty around him, a painful reminder? Sef’s face was hard to read, and all Lys saw in his eyes was shock.

“H-Hello, your highness,” Lysander said softly.

“Silence!” one of the guards, barked, shoving his spear closer to Lys’ threateningly.

“Enough!” Sef bellowed with sudden anger that surprised his court. He held up his hand, “Step away from him.”

The guards did so in unison, spears at their sides, heads held high. Lys swallowed, feeling terribly inadequate.

“What are you doing here?” Sef demanded, and his heart soared with possibilities, with hope. _No,_ he thought, _no more hope, no more foolishly believing in love..._ Lys had hurt him more than anyone had ever hurt him, and Sef didn’t understand why the man was here.

Lys opened his mouth, then closed it again. His hands clenched into fists at his side. He no longer had the regal power of being a Lord Protector, he was virtually nobody now, and yet he was the only thing in the splendid throne room that Sef wanted to look at.

“Yes,” he breathed out.

Sef frowned, not understanding, “Yes what?”

Lys was aware of all the eyes on him, “Y-Yes, I’ll marry you,” he bit his lip when Sef’s eyes widened, “I-If you still want me, that is.”

A murmur of surprise went through the people gathered; there weren’t many of them, and yet they all suddenly understood who the man was – the man whom Sef had set sail for, and the one whom he had come back to Voubrenia without.

The two stared at each other. This was not how Sef had dreamed it be; he had hoped he’d be happy and take Lysander in his arms and kiss him. And yet now all he felt was fear – fear that he would be horribly hurt again.

He turned to two gossiping servant girls, “You two,” he said, “take the Lord Protector upstairs to one of the guest rooms and draw him up a bath.”

And just like that, Sef turned to leave - he needed to organise his thoughts.

“Sef-,” Lysander jerked forward, but then stopped himself as Sef walked out of the throne room without as much as a second glance. Lys’ shoulders slumped; he had hoped for a warmer welcome but he knew he had nobody but himself to blame for Sef’s reaction. After all, his last words to the King hadn’t been kind. At least he wasn’t being executed, at least he still had a chance to explain himself to Sef. Explain that he loved him.

Miserable and exhausted, the Lord followed the servants through the unfamiliar palace.

For long hours Sef debated whether to see Lysander formally in the throne room, or personally in his chambers, or whether to not see him at all. Finally, as the sun began to set and doused all of Voubrenia in a red light, the King decided to have an audience with Lysander out on his balcony garden, away from curious eyes. He wanted to hear what the Lord had to say.

A servant boy came out onto the balcony, clearly nervous, “Your highness,” he bowed, “The pale Lord is here.”

“Send him in,” Sef ordered, swallowing down his own nerves and urging his heart to stop pounding in his chest. He had to be firm and unyielding with Lysander; he had embarrassed himself with his open displays of affection that had been publicly rejected and now he had to show his strength in doing the same to Lys. He would marry Beheret, if only to salvage his pride.

Sef stood proud and tall by in the centre of the balcony, looking out at Eaquithia doused in the light of the setting sun, his form illuminated by gold around the edges, his back to Lysander as he entered timidly. Sef heard his footsteps approach, then stopped. Only then the King turned.

Everything he had been preparing to say seeped out of his mind as if it were a glass of water with a crack in it. His eyes widened, and he swallowed, and tried to remember what he had been thinking about.

The servants had scrubbed Lys well and although his cheeks were still red from the sun he was clean now, and dressed in a light, shimmering golden shirt with short sleeves, and a pair of flowing black trousers. His hair looked soft and clean, falling in neat waves to one side as the Lord’s eyes looked at Sef uncertainly in all their silver glory. Although Lysander had no furs and doublets, he still looked royal and gorgeous, and the fact he wore Voubren clothes made Sef’s heart pound. This is how he had imagined the man looking all along.

The King couldn’t speak, he just stared, remembering ever sweet moment he had shared with Lysander. In the end, after a prolonged silence, it was the ex-Lord Protector who spoke first.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Sef’s face was shadowed with the sun at his back, and Lys was finding it hard to read his expression just as he had hours ago in the Throne Room. The uncertainty and anxiety made him feel light-headed, and when Sef didn’t reply he thought he’d faint with nerves. “I didn’t come here to ask you for forgiveness,” he began, then stopped, took a deep breath, “I mean...I _did._ But I understand if you don’t forgive me. I just...,” he bit his lip and his shoulders slumped. This was Sef’s territory, and he felt so out of place, “I wanted to see you again. I wanted you to know that I didn’t mean those words I said in the hall. I...,” he wanted to say it, he really did, but the three words stuck in his throat. He dropped his gaze.

Sef stood there, in silence. He couldn’t fathom what to say. Every second that passed made Lys’ heart squeeze a tiny bit tighter, until he couldn’t stand it.

“Say something,” he blurted after a minute, looking up again, “ _Please._ Curse me, shout at me, just don’t...don’t just stand there. I came all this way to see you and I...and I-I...”

“And you what?” Sef finally found his voice again, “What did you want?”

Lys’ eyes brimmed with pain, “I just...,” his voice was small, “I suppose I wanted to know if you...if you still love me.”

 _Of course I do!_ Sef wanted to scream at him, _I love you more than I have ever loved anyone else._ But instead he clenched his jaw; he refused to give Lys what he wanted.

“I will marry my sister by the week’s end,” he said calmly, lying, “and I will find you a ship back to Beauralt, or wherever it is you wish to go.”

“No!” Lys panicked and, gripped by sudden emotion, stepped forward. He remembered Sef’s sister’s smirking face, and he felt sick, “No, you can’t marry her!”

Sef laughed humourlessly, “Who else am I going to marry?”

Lys jerked forward and slammed into Sef with such force that the King stumbled back and his back hit the edge of the balcony. He was shocked when Lysander grabbed his face and crashed their lips together in a heated, clumsy kiss. Before Sef could reciprocate the Lord drew back, so their mouths were inches apart and he was still squeezing Sef’s face.

“Me,” he breathed feverishly, “Marry _me._ That’s why I came here. I want you. I’ve wanted you for so long. I love you,” he was blabbering, trying to catch his breath as if the confession made his lungs forget how to function.

They stared into each other’s eyes for a second, and Sef broke. He wasn’t strong enough to deny the love brimming inside him, not for long anyway. He had always been a painfully honest man and one driven by his heart. He might have been angry and hurt, but he also knew that Lysander would have never said what he just did, or recklessly come to Voubrenia, if he didn’t reciprocate Sef’s feelings.

Slowly, the King placed his hands on Lys’ hips, and pulled him an inch closer. The Lord sagged in relief and leaned his forehead on Sef’s shoulder, slumping against the King. Finally, after weeks of feeling like a coiled up spring, he could relax.

“Fuck,” he breathed, “Thank God. I almost thought...,” he leaned up and nudged his nose against Sef’s. Then he smiled, tears shining in his eyes, “I’m so glad.”

Sef kissed him hungrily then, pushing their hips flush together. He wasn’t going to allow Lysander to go back on his word, not now. The man wouldn’t run away this time, Sef wouldn’t let him. He had suffered so much and he wouldn’t be able to pick himself up after another heartbreak.

But Lys had no intention of breaking his heart. He kissed Sef back with equal passion, his fears dissipating. He had spent so many nights onboard the _Princess Allanna_ dreaming of this moment, and now it was happening and his whole body was tingling, and he felt so happy he could have cried tears of joy. Sef’s skin was warm beneath his hands, the way it always had been, and he kissed the way he always did; with the passion of ten men and the hunger of a starved lion, pushing his tongue into Lysander’s mouth and making his knees grow weak.

The bed was close-by and yet neither of the men could think about that and soon wandering hands were pulling off layers, and before he knew what was happening, Lys found himself on the balcony floor, breathless and dizzy with Sef leaning over him, eyes dark. The exotic trees and flowers nearby created the illusion of curtains, but the setting sunlight still peaked through.

Lys touched Sef’s face, pushed his crown off his head and threaded his fingers through the man’s ebony hair. He had taken his shirt off and his muscled body gleamed as if oiled. It made Lysander excited, and he felt a squeezing in his gut. He slid his legs upwards, guided by instinct, and wrapped them around the man’s waist.

Sef’s eyes widened a fraction, “Lys...,” he said carefully.

“I want you to do it to me this time,” Lysander whispered. The marble floor below him was warm, having been heated by the sun all day, and he felt lazy and comfortable, the stress of the past weeks finally seeping out of him, “I trust you.”

Sef kissed him like an over-eager teenager then, the confession gripping at his heart. He pushed Lysander’s hair back and rucked up his shirt and the Lord laughed into his mouth.

“It’s alright,” he whispered, “We don’t have to rush. We have all the time in the world...,” he frowned suddenly, bit his lip. Sef stroked his bottom lip, trying to contain his eagerness.

“What is it?”

 “Does this means you won’t marry your sister?” Lys asked timidly, unsure if it was even his place to pose such a question.

Now it was Sef’s turn to laugh as he kissed the side of Lys’ jaw, “No,” he murmured, “No, I won’t marry her. Thanks to you I get to actually spend the rest of my life with someone I love.”

He picked up his crown off the ground and slipped it onto Lys’ head. It brightened him up and even the Lord himself would have admitted he no longer looked dull and grey if he had looked in the mirror. There was something about him finally accepting his position as King and Sef’s husband that made the dark-haired man want to absolutely devour him.

He grinded down against Lys and the Lord moaned softly, before pulling Sef down for a messy kiss, embarrassed at the sound he made.

“M-Maybe we should go inside,” he whispered as Sef started mouthing at his neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses against his skin, “I- _ah!”_ Lys gasped and jerked when Sef started to suck suddenly, “S-Stop,” Lysander squirmed, heat shooting down to his groin, “D-Don’t leave marks.”

“This isn’t Wildeshell,” Sef whispered hotly into his ear, and Lys’ legs tightened around him, “Everyone will know you’re mine, I’ll make sure of it.”

His possessiveness only made the heat in Lys grow. It was true, they were no longer restricted by Castle Darmont’s freezing walls, or the judgmental whispers of the lords and ladies. Here they were free to be themselves, and love each other openly.

Battling the formality that had been taught to him from a young age, Lysander allowed Sef to pull off his shirt, trousers and undergarments right there on the balcony, and then laid naked and bare in front of the King’s searing gaze – he had to remind himself that the man had already seen him naked and that they had already done this, although now the circumstances were different. The trees on the balcony rustled in the evening breeze as the sky darkened overhead.  They were exposed, and yet sheltered, and Lys decided to try and stop being such a worrier. He focused instead on the feeling of Sef’s mouth as he kissed him, and the feeling of his hands as he stroked Lys in all the right places.

Sef sat up violently in his bed, the sound of the birds chirping outside waking him alongside the shafts of sunlight that fell in through the window. His heart pounded and in a panic, for a moment, he thought he was still in Wildeshell.

Lys’ hand landed heavily on his hip and Sef blinked, before realising the man was still next to him, where he had been the previous night, laying on his stomach with his face shoved into the satin, golden pillow, eyes closed, his broad back naked.

“What’s wrong?” he slurred sleepily.

Relief broke over Sef and he felt tears well up in his eyes. _It wasn’t a dream._ He quickly blinked the wetness away and laid back down next to Lys, basking in the warmth of the morning and listening to his heart as it stopped pounding.

“Nothing,” he kissed the man’s light brown hair, then intertwined their fingers and kissed his knuckles. He couldn’t stop looking at the ex-Lord Protector, his eyelashes that were lighter than normal, the new freckles that had joined his old ones from the sun, the burnt skin on the top of his shoulder that peeked out from beneath the covers. It was all so beautiful, so comforting. Life finally started to make sense.

Lys opened his eyes tiredly, feeling Sef staring at him, “Go to sleep,” he mumbled; he himself was exhausted from the amount of sex he and Sef had had throughout the night, and his whole body ached. He felt like a child again, snug in his bed with no responsibilities.

“I can’t stop looking at you,” Sef whispered with a smile. Lysander blushed and turned his head to the other side.

Sef chuckled and wrapped his arms around the Lord, pulling him up against him and showering his hair and neck in kisses, “Don’t run away from me,” he said teasingly, then stilled, arms tightening around Lys’ waist “Don’t ever run away from me again...please,” he whispered, serious now.

Suddenly awake, Lysander turned around. He nudged his nose against Sef’s and then tucked the man’s chin-length hair behind his ears.

“I won’t,” he promised, wrapping his arms around Sef’s shoulders, “I love you,” it was getting easier for him to say it out loud. He squeezed Sef close, “I love you so much. I promise-“  
Sef caught him in an open mouthed kiss. Lys smiled into the surprise attack and leaned into his fiancée.

“When will we get married?” he asked sleepily.

“Soon,” Sef reluctantly let the man go, reminding himself that they would get hundreds of mornings just like this, “Which reminds me that I have to inform my court.”

He slipped out of bed and Lys sat up too, rubbing sleep from his eyes, hair sticking up in all directions, “I’ll come with you. I’m a good diplomat.”

Sef smiled, and nodded. They got dressed together, without the help of servants as the Voubren clothes were light and easy to put on – leggings and short shirts and sandals, then a golden cloak for Sef and the crown on his brow.

He brought Lysander down to the Throne Room, holding his hand the whole way despite the man’s embarrassed protests. Lys was just not used to such open displays of affection, but the people that passed them in the hallways only bowed to Sef and smiled at them, and nobody said a word. Lys, too overwhelmed the previous day to notice, marvelled at the gorgeousness and majesty of the Ivory Palace.

 _My home._ It was peculiar to think of the animal heads on the walls and the palm trees as his, but when he glanced at Sef by his side everything settled, and it seemed as if the world was in order. Lys squeezed his betrothed’s hand, feeling happier than he had ever before.

Beheret was already waiting for them in the Throne Room, eyes dark with menace and fury. Other courtesans had also gathered, lords and ladies and Sef’s councillors. When he walked in with Lysander they exploded into gossip as they had the night before.

Dresmo, the greasy, greedy Lord that had come with Sef to Voubrenia, got to him first.

“My King,” he bowed, blocking Sef’s path to his throne and his raging sister, “May I have a word?”

“No,” Sef replied, loud enough for everyone to hear, “You may not.”

Dresmo looked baffled, “But, my Lord...,” his eyes travelled to Lysander, “You...your marriage to your sister-“

“Is cancelled,” Sef said gruffly. His eyes met Heroti’s – the man was at the front of the crowd with several of the royal guards, and now shoved Dresmo back with a spear. The man seethed at the disrespect but Sef didn’t care as he walked past him. He released Lys’ hand and strode up to his sister confidently, as the Lord awkwardly hung back.

“Net,” he welcomed her coldly.

“What is the meaning of this?” Beheret fumed. Her eyes slid to Lysander and he saw the pure hate that brewed in their depths, “Why is he here?” she hissed.

“Because he loves me,” Sef said simply, “and I love him, and we are getting married.”

An excited murmur went through the crowd as the people nearest, who had hurt, passed on what was being said. Net’s dark face reddened, and her expression twisted into a distorted smile. She cackled, and the sound travelled through the Hall. Lys fought a flinch.

“Don’t make me laugh!” the girl jeered, “He did not want you in Beauralt and he does not want you now! Have you already forgotten what he called you, his public proclamation of how you disgust him?! I cannot believe you would tolerate his disrespect, I would have had him beheaded the moment he dared step foot in Voubrenia-“

“Enough,” Sef barked.

“Yes,” Lys replied, more calmly, and came to stand next to the King, fully aware of the purple kiss-marks standing out on his pale neck, “Enough. What Sef is saying is true. I have made mistakes and denied who I am, but I _do_ love him,” he stared at her. She grinded her teeth together.

“This is all good and well!” she exploded, throwing her hands up, “But what about me?! What about _our_ marriage!? _I_ was supposed to be Queen!”

Sef smirked, “Marry the King of Beauralt, then,” he said and ended the conversation by turning to his people, who had been watching the exchange with bated breath, “I proclaim that the former Lord Protector of Wildeshell, Lysander Harkness,” he shouted, so that everyone could hear, “and I will be married tomorrow, and he will reign alongside me as the King of Voubrenia!”

The crowd erupted into cheers, and the guards slammed their spears against the ground. Beheret, realising she had lost, shoved past the joyful courtesans and disappeared from the room like a hurricane.  

“Long live King Sef!” someone yelled, and a chant began, “Long live King Lysander!”

The Lord blushed, then turned to Sef and smiled. The King was already grinning at him, and took his hand as word spread, and the people of Voubrenia celebrated their new King.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue is coming very soon! Stay tuned guys xx


	20. Journey of the Wind (Epilogue)

**5 years later.**

**Winter.**

****

A cold wind descended from the night sky, slipping past the thick clouds that spurted snowflakes down onto the grey, depressed landscape below. Tekoshi was a mesh of dim golden lights, and eerily silent as it had been since they had been isolated from the rest of the world many, many years ago. Another winter meant another four months of poverty and cold for the majority of its inhabitants and the suffering was palpable in the air.

On the Wall torches flickered as the Guardians did their duty, eyes glued to the snow-covered Empty Land, trying to spot intruders among the snow and frozen corpses, but tonight all was still and quiet save for the howling wind coming down onto the kingdom.

The wind found its way to the East Side of the Wall, where the cold was most bitter, and there swept over the heads of two men, catching a snippet of their conversation.

“I can’t believe it,” Miko Ondera stomped his feet against the stone floor in an attempt to warm himself as his teeth clattered. He was still slender, but the big, expensive fur coat around his shoulders helped to chase the worse of the chills away, courtesy of the figure standing beside him, “Why do we have to be here again? We didn’t even _do_ anything this time.”

“Shut up,” Keito Shingatasha grumbled, elbowing his short companion in the shoulder, “Someone’s gotta guard this part of the Wall, might as well be us.”

Miko shoved his chin into his chest and glared out at the gloomy land in front of him. But it wasn’t the cold that was putting him in such a miserable mood, it was something else.

“The High Guardians are getting impatient with us,” he said quietly, voice muffled by the fur. Keito looked at him, surprised, “You’ve had more job proposals than I can count, and yet you reject all of them. You can’t stay on the Wall forever. Besides, your parents want you back home and it appears that you’re just staying here because you’re stubborn. _That’s_ why the High Guardians put us on the East Wall.”

Keito’s jaw clenched and he grabbed Miko by the back of his fur, turning the man to face him. In the past five years that he had spent with the smaller Guardian he had lost a lot of his hot-headiness and anger, and now his eyes seemed calmer and wiser as he looked at Miko.

He flicked him in the forehead.

“Shut up, you little shit,” he said, a fond smile playing on his lips. Miko exhaled.

“I’m right though.”

Kei glanced around but there was nobody on this part of the Wall, just the two of them and the burning torches and the howling wind. He leaned down and kissed Miko, and warmth spread through both of them, chasing away the chill.

“I’m not going anywhere without you,” Keito whispered quietly, “I’d rather be stuck here with you forever.” Miko sighed.

“Alright,” he grumbled, but smiled when Kei stole another secret kiss from him.

The wind continued on its journey, sweeping over the sleepy Baijin Patch, weaving between the houses packed tight with starving families who whispered conspiracies to each other by candle-light as Guardians patrolled the streets.

At the edge of the Patch, behind a gorgeous, wealthy house with many floors in which a mournful Lord Kage laid beside his wife, a single gravestone erupted from the frozen ground, maintained and decorated with winter flowers. The old, superstitious cook came out of the back and headed for the servant toilets that were situated behind the naked black trees of the orchard. As she headed there, her old bones creaking and cold wind slipping beneath her night-cap, she glanced at the grave, then froze and swore she saw someone between the trees; a ghostly figure in a white dress.

The cook squeezed her night-dress around herself, “Mistress Hiroa!” she called, voice hoarse and muffled with age, “Mistress Hiroa, don’t haunt! Go back home!”

But there was nobody among the trees, or perhaps there had been, and the wind just didn’t see. It continued on nonetheless, unfazed by the cook and her superstitions and the ghosts of murdered girls.

On the wind went, slipping into the Jenjo Patch where the houses were grander and the stores, now closed for the night, sold more than just rice and vinegar. Here, rising above the other buildings, was the royal palace, encased by a tall wall and guarded by a thousand guards. Inside the palace, Emperor Hazaki-Xio VI sat on his throne and gnawed at his fingernails, his paranoia grinding his nerves. In every corner he saw the enemy – a pale Beau, a brown-skinned Shairin, all ready to assassinate him.

But there was nobody there, or perhaps the wind simply did not see anything as it slipped past the windows and flew on. It felt the pull of the sea, the smell of salt in the air as it found its way into the Miyaga Patch at the edge of the continent.

And here was a manor house, alone and on a hill, away from the poor villages of the Miyaga Patch. The overlord of the patch slept in his bed with his mistress as his wife sat by the window in her bedroom, alone, unable to sleep. At the gate of their possession stood two Guardians, swords at their hips. One had hair as white as snow and only one eye, and the other the regal look of a leader.

“It’s cold,” Akiharo Ue murmured, his one eye trained on the village at the foot of the hill, where a single light burned in a window.

“Yes,” Reno Yugutazu agreed, looking up at the cloudy sky above them. The wind carried the salty smell of the sea to them, and the man yearned for the waves. But alas, he had to stand vigil.

He glanced at his partner and the faraway look in his eye.

“Are you thinking about Tomoya again, Aki?” Reno asked, voice calm. Aki nodded barely visibly.

“I’ll think about him till I die,” he admitted. Reno smiled faintly.

“Yes,” he looked back to the sky, “I suppose we will never know if he made it or not.”

“He did,” Aki said, firmly and immediately. For the past five years since they left the Wall he had up-kept that their friend had made it to safety, “I’m sure of it.”

“Yes,” the wind caught the last of Reno’s words as it slipped away, “I’m sure he did...”

The wind felt a tug, and the pull of the dampness in the air. It slid over the roof of the manor, past the snowy rice fields, and there it was; the place where the Tekosh Wall had cracked in two and provided an escape from this dreary kingdom. The wind slipped between the two cliffs and saw it – the sea, the angry waves slamming against the Wall. Freedom. The wind eagerly erupted over the water and the coastal breeze carried it out to sea with the snow.

For half the night the wind travelled through the seas and oceans, passed the storm in Vermille Bay and the Voubren fleet anchored in the Dapharo Sea, until it caught sight of the sails on a tree-mast of a single ship on its lonely journey through the Lazure Sea, headed for the mysterious land of Atavya. 

The wind came closer, it swept through the blonde hair of the teenage girl that sat in the bird’s nest all alone, wrapped up in a fur and watching the calm waves. It rushed through the deck, made the flames of the torches flicker, blew the smoke of the Captain’s pipe back in his face.

“Ah!” Captain Jaro grumbled as he turned the wheel, “Fucking wind.”

The sound of an old Dukkosh song filtered from the prow, where an old woman stood and watched the water. A younger woman rushed up from below-deck, her hair white, face wrinkled.

“Mother!” Tastasia grabbed the old woman by the shoulders, and her song ended, “it’s too cold, come back to bed.”

The wind blew lovingly into the sails of _Sava,_ helping it on its way, and then fluttered away from the ship. It wanted to head to Grudorin, as _Sava_ had five years ago, but it got pulled South by an eternally-warm breeze and it found itself beneath a clear, starry sky, approaching a beautiful white palace. In one of the Palace window sat a dark-skinned, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman in an almost transparent white night-dress. Her hair was a tangle, her eyes circled by darkness as she gazed out onto the city of Zora stretched out beneath the palace.

“Mine,” Beheret Ammon murmured, eyes unfocused as she reached out her hand out into thin air and grasped nothing, “You could have been all mine.”

Outside her doors two Guards stood sentry, not to keep people out, but to keep the raving Princess in.

The stars twinkled – close to dawn now. But there was somebody else the wind wanted to check in on, and it fluttered upwards, to a balcony overgrown with mango trees and exotic flowers.

There stood King Sef Ammon, without his crown and in his night clothes, contently looking out at his kingdom. He hadn’t changed much, the mischievous sparkle was still in his eye but he had grown a beard, and the five years of ruling alongside his husband had given him an air of wisdom.

The other King appeared behind him like a spectre, still pale and light eyed despite the years he had spent in this sun-filled kingdom. His eyes were sleepy as he wrapped his arms around Sef’s waist and kissed his shoulder, leaning into his husband.

“Come back to bed,” Lysander whispered.

Sef turned and took his husband’s face in his hands and kissed him. Lysander smiled.

“You need to shave,” he stroked the man’s chin, and then led him back into their bedroom.

The wind fluttered back out to sea like a bird and here it saw the sun slowly peeking from behind the horizon, colouring the sky a beautiful pink and reflecting in the waves. Dawn was upon this part of the world, and the air felt fresh but chilly. Soon enough the sea gave way and the wind saw mountains and forests and fields full of dew-drops – Grudorin. And here, on the cliff by the shore, stood a lone three-storey hut with a thatched roof and windows that reflected the rays of the rising sun. A thin line of grey smoke curled into the clear spring sky, and several boats and ships swayed calmly in the peaceful waters of the Murmur Sea, its owners happily asleep in the rooms of the inn.

Downstairs, in the now empty main room of the inn, four young of varying ages children sat by the fireplace and fed it twigs and branches, getting the fire going. They were in their night-clothes and their blond hair stuck in all directions. They were children the owners of the inn had saved from enemy Odelian ships that had tried to take them far away in order to sell them to bad people. Only four, in five years, the rest had been taken away.

The wooden steps creaked as one of the owners of the inn came downstairs, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Despite his raven hair being cut close to his head now, Tomoya Itoe looked as he had five years ago.

“Good morning,” he blinked in surprise at the children gathered by the flames.

“Good morning, papa!” they echoed and the youngest toddler waddled towards Tommy, wrapping his arms around the man’s leg. Tomoya smiled and picked him up.

“Why are you up so early?”

“We want you to take us fishing, papa!”

Tomoya smiled, “I took you two days ago.”

“We want to go again! Again!” the children chanted.

“Hush,” Tomoya whispered, “You’ll wake the guests. Alright, I’ll take you, but you have to be dressed soon. Did you eat breakfast?”

The children shook their heads, “Alright, I’ll go wake up your father and you prepare to eat.”

He set the toddler down and went back upstairs, past doors through which snoring could be heard, to the top floor where, in the attic, he had created rooms for his family, away from the often drunk sailors that frequented the inn. Tomoya yawned as he padded through the narrow hallways, glancing through little windows at the sunrise over the sea as he passed.

At the end he found a door, and ducked inside the room it hid. The bedroom was small, but cosy with a quilt thrown over the bed and curtains in the windows. Tomoya’s side of the bed was still warm though he would have never guessed he had left here just a few minutes ago, for Ivo was sprawled over the entirety of the bed as if it only belonged to him.

Tommy sat on the edge and brushed his fingers through his lover’s blond hair. Ivo was on his back, mouth open as he snored in oblivion, and Tomoya couldn’t help but smile at the sight. Even though some years have passed, Ivo still looked like an unruly teenager.

“Hey,” Tommy murmured and kissed his pale forehead, “Wake up, beautiful. We’ve got an inn to run.”

Ivo snorted in his sleep and turned on his side, cuddling into Tomoya. The man snickered and continued to stroke the blond’s hair.

“Come on, sleepyhead,” he whispered, nudging Ivo, “Wake up, I have to go out to sea.”

But the blond wasn’t budging, as stubborn as always. Tomoya’s eye twitched in irritation and he pulled on the man’s ear. With a yelp Ivo shot up, gripping the place Tomoya had just tugged.

“What the hell was that for?!” he spluttered, glaring with accusation at his lover.

“Get up you lazy bum,” Tomoya stood up, “We’ve got work to do.”

Ivo pouted, “Why can’t you ever wake me up with kisses and lovely words?” he complained.

“I am the backbone of this establishment!” Tomoya proclaimed. Ivo glared. Tomoya softened and sat back down, pulling the grumpy blond into his arms. He kissed him on the mouth softly, “Your breath stinks,” Tomoya remarked.

“I hate you,” Ivo tried to wriggle free of the ex-Guardian’s embrace, but the man tightened his grip.

“Oh no you don’t!”

He flipped Ivo on the bed and started showering him with kisses, until the Dukkosh was giggling and squirming, “S-Stop!” he laughed.

The door burst open and their four adopted children sprinted in and jumped onto the bed.

“Daddy! Daddy!” they exclaimed, “papa’s taking us fishing! We need breakfast!”

“Yes, yes,” Ivo grabbed the closest girl and blew a raspberry on her stomach and she dissolved into giggles. His eyes met Tomoya’s and he smiled. _When did I become a mother?_

“Alright, give daddy some space,” Tomoya got off the bed and held out his hands and the children eagerly latched onto him as he led them from the bedroom.

Ivo flopped back on the pillows and smiled. He hated waking up so early, but he felt happy and content. Seeing Tomoya with the children always warmed his heart, because the blond never expected the grumpy man who had threatened to abandon him in a desert to be so good with them.

The Dukkosh slipped out of bed and opened the window, looking out at the sky that was quickly becoming more and more blue. He leaned on the windowsill of the inn he and Tomoya had built with their own hands and gazed at the beach where _Sava_ had left them all those years before. It was when his new life had begun.

Feeling nostalgic, Ivo’s eyes scanned the water, but no new ships had appeared in the night. For three years since the inn had been running he woke every day with the hope that _Sava_ might dock here, and that he might see Pola and Jaro and Tavel again. But they never came.

 _Maybe tomorrow,_ Ivo thought with a smile and turned from the window, just as the wind slipped over his shoulder and back outside.

It zoomed through beautiful forests and through mountain passes, over the Odelian Empire and its citizens debating politics by fountains, and its legions of soldiers standing in neat lines, and its purple banners. By the time it reached Beauralt the sun was up in the sky and the spring morning was in full bloom.

In Briarwhyte old King Ormond Burnheart was at the table in his dining hall, drinking goblet after goblet of wine while his much younger wife, Queen Ofelia, stared at her plate, not touching her food and watching her husband get disgustingly drunk. The wind passed through the airy corridors of the castle, and through the golden-leafed orchards, and over the hills that separated Briarwhyte from Wildeshell.

It glided over the beaches and villages, and reached the sad, quiet town of Crasbury over which Castle Darmont loomed like a grey monster, a painful reminder of the events of five years prior – the abandonment of the kingdom by the King, and then the escape of the Lord Protector. The cobbled streets of Crasbury were littered with moulding leaves, the shutters of many shops closed; the wind could smell the fear in the air, the magic; there were creatures among the drab-faced towns-people that weren’t human.

Up the hill towards the castle, whistling over the fields, slithering in through the cracks in the stone overgrown with ivy. The corridors of the castle were dark, the servants flitted about like mice with their heads hung low. The windows hadn’t been washed. Up a staircase, down a hallway, and there are the double doors, a rusty crimson. The wind went beneath the gap underneath the doors, and hung for a moment over the heads of the people gathered around a circular table covered completely by a map.

Lord Rassel stood to the side, old hands riddled with arthritis clenched in front of him as he looked over the gloomy faces in the room.

“We cannot wait for those two fools,” by the window was Estania Harkness, her face more soured and aged than three years prior. She looked out at the blooming trees outside, a heavy silver crown on her greying head, “Lord Patran, read the letter.”

The old secretary obediently reached into his sleeve with a hand trembling so badly that the letter he produces almost slipped between his crooked fingers. He opened it clumsily, and read in a croaky, quiet voice.

“To the Queen of Wildeshell,” he begun, “We have decided to end negotiations as you are clearly unprepared to give us what we want. But we will have it regardless, and we plan to take your kingdom by force. We advise you run to the man that was once your King and beg for protection, for Wildeshell is lost,” the man swallowed and folded the letter back up, “with condolences, the Witches of the Wild Lands.”

“Insolence!” Estania barked, whirling around on what was now her, incomplete, Privy Council. The men looked around uneasily, and Lord Bronyan took a sip of wine from his goblet, “They cannot mean to attack us! King Ormond is an ally, he will send troops-“

“Just as he sent troops when the Voubren invaded?” Archbishop Rochon snorted, and stood from where he had sat in bitter silence.

“Where are you going?” Estania seethed.

“I am taking the advice of the witches, and returning to Briarwhyte as I should have five years ago. Our last Lord Protector had the right idea escaping.”

Estania’s blood boiled, but she lifted her chin, “Fine,” she said icily, “Run away to your precious King.”

The wind didn’t hear the rest of the conversation as it slid back beneath the door, and let the draught carry it up to the attic of the castle. It thought it was alone among the cobwebs and old chests covered in dust, but alas there were two shadows in the corner, whom the wind caught a glimpse of before it was pulled out of a little open window.

“We have the Privy Council meeting,” Lord Sullian, the Master of Coin, grumbled as the General pushed him into the wall and kissed his neck.

“Fuck the Privy Council,” Baralthol grumbled, hands on his lover’s slender hips, “It doesn’t matter what that old bitch has to say, the witches are coming for all of us,” he sucked beneath Sullian’s ear, and the man chuckled, nudging him away.

“Maybe for you,” his long, floppy hair fell into his eyes, which were amused, “I’m not planning to stay here long enough to let them sacrifice me to their pagan gods.”

Barry wasn’t happy at the pause in their activities and pressed himself closer to Sullian, “Where do you plan to go?”

Sullian shrugged, “Anywhere. I have a ship.”

“You’re leaving Beauralt?” Baralthol frowned.

Sullian slipped from his grip and began stalking down the dusty attic corridor, smoothing down his robes, “There is nothing left for me in this miserable country.”

Baralthol’s heart dropped. He and Sullian had only began their secret relationship recently and although the cold Master was hard to read, Baralthol had already developed feelings for him.

But so had Sullian. He turned at the trapdoor that the two had used some minutes earlier to come up here in search of some privacy, a playful smile playing on his lips.

“Are you coming?”

“Fuck the meeting.”

Sullian’s grin widened, “I meant with me, silly.”

The wind continued on its way, basking in the first warmth of the spring day as the sun travelled across the sky. It rushed over the rebuilt village of Farnore and melted with the fog at sea as it delved through the Wind Straits, only to soon see the blooming green land of Hangulla. There it rushed with the smoke from the afternoon fires of Encaster and Meggingen, and by the Myrrdin forest that sprouted beneath the feet of the majestic Dwen mountains he felt something join him – a presence, an old and wise and kind one. A druid with long hair and antlers sprouting from her head who smelled like the sea. She flew on the wings of the wind as it swept down Arta. There, on the rocky hill-side, knelt a girl whom the druid knew, with eyes in two different colours and a mossy green cloak on her back. She searched for herbs among the snow.

A loud caw sounded and a black raven joined the spirit of the druid, and the wind. The girl picking herbs looked up, and smiled.

“Maganna,” Orena whispered, and the wind took the druid along, ruffling the girl’s hair with a warm gust.

Into the little village of Cervantes they went, where the last of the winter was giving way. Through the eyes of the druid the wind saw the people and felt a fondness for them, blowing a warm breeze over their faces as it passed.

There was Feona Gallobhair, with a more angular face and half her hair still shorn off, arguing outside her hut with Lug whose beard had grown so long that he had braided it.

“Are you a buffoon?!” the girl yelled in annoyance, “this isn’t sharpened properly!” she waved a knife at his face and he backed away sheepishly.

Into their hut the wind went, and by the fire-pit sat the big, awkward figure of Aeth, who had grown more big and awkward in the last years, and whose tiny guitar Seashell looked like a toy in his big hands as he played it. He was singing a sweet, cheerful song to Wynna, who was perched by the fire with flowers in her hair, smiling at her love and stroking her growing belly.

Outside – the squeak of a child. The wind follows, interested because the druid is interested. A toddler waddles between a herd of sheep being taken out to graze. Darwanna and Uliah ran after him, concerned and fretting parents. Deep in the forest, beside the hut that once belonged to the old Head Druid of the village, the redheaded Aruna picks flowers, rounding the now abandoned hut that had been reclaimed by vines and roses and animals.

The spirit wanted to return to the sea, and the wind agreed to take her there. He felt her tenderness and love as she looked at what was once her home, blooming and alive.

At the beach sat two figures. Three wildcats ran from the waves, and then to them again.

Roan Gallobhair threw a stone into the calm waters and it skipped, “I reckon it’s warm enough to swim,” he said thoughtfully. He had a new scar across his nose that he had gotten from some battle, and his scruff had grown into a full blond beard that his father, who died a year ago, would have been proud of.

At his side sat Callian, more freckly and fiercely redheaded than he had been, rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be stupid,” he said, irritated, “I don’t feel like dealing with any more colds this year.”         

Roan pouted, “Just a quick dip,” he nudged his husband with his elbow. Cal looked at him from the side.

“If you just-,” he paused, eyes widening. He sat up straighter as the wind caressed his hair, and exhaled.

“What?” Roan asked with concern, putting a protective arm around the Head Druid’s waist. At the shore, the wildcats looked up simultaneously, “What is it?”

“I just...,” Cal looked up at the sky. He smiled gently and sagged against Roan, “I think it’s Maganna.”

Roan blinked up at the blue afternoon sky, “Where?”

Cal snickered, “Everywhere. Don’t worry,” he kissed his husband’s cheek.

The wind felt the content spirit slip away and dance towards the waves, below which it disappeared. The wind followed her, but she was gone, returning to her underwater home, and the wind had no choice but to continue its journey around the world. Where to next?

The Straits of D’Ana shimmer as the wind passed, greeting its old friend, and as the sun began to set the wind found itself in the bustling Harbour of Cheri, and past it in a sandy beach that stretched on for miles and miles and miles. Not a beach, a desert, and on the desert a lone house with camel stables built beside it, and a rider heading for it.

The wind slipped inside. There, at the stove, stood a beautiful woman with long black hair. Two little twin girls played at her feet with potato peels, giggling. The door opened suddenly and a man with a black beard and shaggy hair entered, a warm smile on his face. His wife beamed at him.

“Gahr,” Satima ran to him and he took her into his arms, the way he had every day after coming back from work for five years since they had been shunned by his family for ruining the treaty with the Abazza’s.

“My love,” Gahr kisses her. The little girls run towards him.

“Papa! Papa!” they squeal as he takes them up into his arms.

The sun warms the desert with a red light as the wind slips out. It doesn’t know where night will find him as he passes over an emptiness of sand. It finds a beautiful city full of lights, and slips its way into a harem full of music and laughter. In one of the courtyards sit two women, one old and in blue, the other young and in verdant. They speak in quiet, hushed voices.

“Mama! Mama!” a five year old girl with big black eyes and wavy dark hair runs to the younger woman, interrupting their conversation, “Another olive!” she proudly holds up the fruit her uncle had hidden around the courtyards, and shows it to Kater. The woman smiles.

“Wonderful. Well done, Assie.”

The beaming child turns to the older woman, “Look, grandmamma, I found another one!”

“Yes, magnificent. Add it to your collection,” Therian replies with pride. Assie nods and runs into the harem, her chubby legs taking her along to a door right on the other side. She doesn’t bother knocking as she bursts into the Council Room, where people much taller than her are pouring over a table full of maps.

“...Beauralt will undoubtedly look to strike-“ Samirr Ka’all stops abruptly as Assie bumps into his legs, and looks down. The frightening general who had killed more people than he could count softens at the sight of the little girl. “Ah! If it isn’t the Princess!” he sweeps her up into his arms and sets her down on top of the maps.

“Sam!” Abolreza protests, “You’ll ruin them!”

“Shush, Ab,” Augustus smiles at his niece and holds out her hand, “How did you get in here?”

She begins to crawl across the maps towards him, but her father sweeps her up into his arms before she can ruin any of them.

“Oh no, what did I tell you about coming in here when there’s a meeting, Assina?” Seraf chastised his daughter, who pouted.

“Aw, come on,” Gus protests.

“Leave her be,” Samirr adds.

Seraf sighs, “You’re all spoiling her to death.”

The door opened once again and another uninvited member of the meeting walked in, his dark hair tied at the nape of his neck. He was dressed in a light blue tunic and darker trousers, and looked flustered.

“Assie!” he exclaimed, ignoring Abolreza groan, “What happened to looking for olives?”

“I found one,” the girl holds her treasure out to her father, “I found one, papa!” she shoved it into Seraf’s face. The man laughed, unable to help himself.

“Yes, well done,” he kissed the girl’s head, “You did very well.”

“Look, Uncle Sam,” the chubby girl waddled to Samirr, “I found an olive!”

Taking advantage of the commotion, Gus slipped around the table and approached the Prince.

“Hello,” he smiled at Omarian as if he hadn’t seen him just hours before. Ari beams at him and pulls Gus down for a shameless kiss.

“I’ve missed you,” he said.

“I’ve just seen you,” Gus brushed the hair from his husband’s face lovingly, hand lingering. Ari nuzzled that hand and his smile softened.

“Doesn’t make me miss you any less.”

Gus kissed his forehead, “The meeting’s almost done. I’ll see you in the courtyard?”

The Prince nodded and ran to the table, sweeping Assie up, “We’re going to look for more olives!” he proclaimed, and the giggling pair went back out into the courtyard. The wind followed them, then slipped unnoticed through the gates of the harem. The air was warm but didn’t have the dampness of summer, night was falling.

The wind, pulled by the beautiful lights of the city at the foot of the harem, found itself inside an inn, where two royal women sat dressed as peasants at a low table.

“To us,” Eryel Abazza smiled at her lover, lifting her goblet. Burha mirrored her smile, reached out and took the dark-haired woman’s hand.

“To us,” she knocked her own goblet against Eri’s.

On the wind went, back out onto the desert. On and on and on.

And here, in the middle of the dunes, was a ring of beige tents, and camels grazing on cacti nearby. And in a circle in the middle, around a fire, sat a group of people with tanned skin and dark hair, picking through a bag of gold and diamonds.

“We did it again!” Ishgan proclaimed, looking at the Sand Pirates with pride, “Another successful looting! The desert belongs to us!”

The family cheered, the wind pressed on. Soon another city appeared out of the sand. Sweet music drifted among the sandstone buildings and the wind carried it happily, over the head of a girl in a red dress, carrying a basket of lemons through the busy streets.

Arkana looked up at the starry sky, feeling the breeze on her face. She paused in the middle of the street, smiled, and out of the blue remembered the two peculiar travellers who had passed through her inn five summers ago. She remembered them fondly, then continued on her way.

The wind was almost ready to leave this city of light, when an old woman in a doorway caught its attention. She looks like a wrinkled prune, and was peeling a tangerine with her surprisingly steady hands. She winked at the wind.

It pressed on, and the warmth gave way to a chill. The sand gave way to a rocky desert, snow appeared, but clouds stay away and the night remains clear. In the light of the moonlight the wind saw the place where it had began – the Tekoshi Wall rising from the ground, the Guardians standing on its battlements. It weaved past them, making them shiver. Its journey began again.

If this castle could speak it’d say it’s time to leave the wind alone.

_~Fin_

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHH IT'S DONE.  
> This project literally took 8 months, that's like almost a baby.  
> Anyway, I wanted to thank everyone for the wonderful support you've shown this story and shout out the wonderful commenters;  
> allforthetwinyards  
> antsattheedge  
> Apex_Calibre  
> Elixirsix  
> Fan of your work!  
> FeralWolfChild  
> Gazebo-life  
> Hyunjinn  
> Imhere2readsomegoodshit  
> JulianSteinma  
> LurKingFisher  
> Mynameisdrella  
> selgalad  
> ShinyTyphoon  
> Spoopyholidaylucy  
> Spurenleger  
> Taytae  
> TKEdriss  
> tunnelOFdawn  
> Wombat  
> also s/o to whoever commented on nearly every chapter but then deleted their account, those who commented anonymously and those who left kudos!  
> Thankyou to everyone for reading this story to the end, you guys are da best and make my work feel so appreciated.  
> Also for those interested I’m considering bringing back my PJO prompts but not 100% sure yet  
> Until the next story x

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Thanks for checking out the story, hope you liked it x  
> Leave a kudo if you're feeling sweet.  
> Leave a comment if you're feeling extra sweet xx  
> Till the next one ;)


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